Youngsters
by Jazzola
Summary: Gene Hunt and Alex Price, eight and six, partnered together for a school project. Anything could happen.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: St George's is a real primary school. I am taking artistic liberties with what it was really like in the 70s (or even if it existed back then, as I can't be sure). English in Action was a real textbook from the 70s, and again, I'm not sure if it was for six-year-olds, so I am taking more artistic liberties there. I just wanted a genuine textbook to use. Heed that, or I'll come round your house and stamp on all your toys.

A/N: Let me set the scene for you, dear readers. The year is 1979. Gene Hunt is eight years old, embarking on a trip to London. Alex Price is six years old, at school awaiting the arrival of their Mancunian visitors. Prepare for mayhem, eight-year-old swear words, and perhaps a little bit of a crush… Enjoy!

* * *

><p>160 miles to London.<p>

The coach was full of loud, excited Mancunian children, swapping sweets and yelling to their friends across the aisle, the odd fist-fight starting between the seats. For most of them, this would be the first time they'd been out of Manchester; for several of them, the first time they'd even been on a coach. This school taught children from the roughest areas of Manchester, and so by definition the poorest areas. The Seventies hadn't been kind to many families.

One such child, from a poor Mancunian family, was eight-year-old Gene Hunt, clutching his rucksack to his chest as though it contained the crown jewels.

He was one of the younger children on the trip, the majority being ten or eleven; most of them knew of him by reputation, handy with his fists, not afraid to get into a fight. It was one of the reasons he'd been sent on this trip, to try and improve his behaviour. Gene was bright enough, as all the teachers sighed at him whenever he was hauled into the headteacher's office once again with a split lip or a black eye, it was just what he did with that intelligence that worried them. Working out ways of hitting people that didn't leave a bruise wasn't on the National Curriculum, and they'd really rather he didn't use that to occupy his time, thanks very much.

Perhaps this visit to St George's Cathedral Catholic Primary School in London, known for its discipline, would force him back onto the straight and narrow.

Gene had overheard the conversation between his teacher and the headmistress with some dismay, unsure that he really fancied leaving Manchester; but when they'd mentioned London, he'd been cautiously excited, unable to stop himself agreeing, albeit with a great show of reluctance. London, to children of Gene's ilk, was one of the mythical places they knew existed but never hoped to see, a land of mystery and intrigue that only adults ever saw, and so Gene's mother had agreed to let her son go for three days on the trip to St George's, even selling a dress to find the money to pay for it. Thus Gene was now wearing a new shirt and trousers, for the first time in three years, paid for with a little extra she'd kept to the side.

"Hunt! Got any sweets?"

"No," he yelled back to Brian Davis, clutching his bag even harder. William Jamieson and John Carter had already tried to steal it, only handing it back when he'd got William in a headlock and was standing on John's foot. Having a violent father paid off in that respect. Gene shuddered, huddling into his seat, trying to ignore the cold air gusting onto his legs from the not-quite-shut door of the coach.

He tried to imagine London from the snippets he'd seen on TV, curled up on the sofa before his father got home and either knocked the shit out of him or ordered him upstairs, throwing something after him for good measure. He knew what Big Ben looked like, and the Houses of Commons, and Downing Street… he counted them off on his fingers, wincing as he pressed too hard on a cut. Well, he didn't know much about London, but he was willing to bet that William Jamieson and John Carter didn't either. And they were older than him, too.

Gene rested his head against the window of the coach, watching the road go by, and hoped that whoever his partner at St George's was, he wasn't afraid of a couple of scraps.

* * *

><p>Mrs Pankhurst had said the children from Manchester would be arriving at about two o'clock, and so there would be time to meet them and decide on their project before they had to go to their hotel and check in at half past three. The entire school was in a frenzy of excitement, eagerly anticipating their Northern visitors, everyone who had been selected to partner one of them barely able to concentrate with impatience.<p>

One such child was Alex Price, six years old, wearing her little blue badge that proclaimed her as one of the children participating in the Manchester project with pride as the other children in her class stared and whispered behind their hands.

Alex was not particularly popular, having only her best friend Michelle for company, and since Michelle was off with glandular fever she was on her own until the Mancunian children arrived. She was undoubtedly one of the smartest children in the class, always getting top marks and beating everyone else in the end of week tests, and had a tendency not to notice how annoying she could be; hopefully her partner from Manchester would be tolerant, able to keep up with her, and well-behaved.

If that's what Alex expected, she was in for a disappointment.

Alex tapped her fingers on the table beside her workbook, staring at the letters on the page as a smile made its way onto her face.

* * *

><p>Halfway there and Gene was feeling distinctly coach-sick. The sweets Brian Davis had passed him in exchange for a game of Top Trumps had been sickly, far too much sugar and too little actual sweet; he wondered if it would be considered cool if he threw up, and quickly decided making the coach stink of vomit wouldn't make him too popular, especially if everyone had to put up with it for the next two hours.<p>

"Want a fight, Hunt?" William Jamieson called from the back, laughing with his little gang of mates; Gene ignored him, focusing on the outside of the coach, remembering his mother's advice on coach-sickness. _"Try ter stare out o' the window an' concentrate on the outside, an' don't be sick all over yer new clothes."_

If he were to be sick all over his new things, he'd most certainly get a beating from his father. Gene huddled further into the seat, still clutching his bag, making sure it covered the bruises on his chest from being hit yesterday because the pub closing had somehow been his fault. The last real beating he'd got from his dad, the kind where Stephen Hunt didn't stop until his son was either begging or unconscious, he'd spent two days in hospital, being poked and prodded as his mother sat crying by his bedside, promising never to let it happen again. They'd been through the usual rigmarole again the next day, packing their bags and heading out the door only for Mrs Hunt to suddenly find a good reason for them to stay, like she hadn't done the laundry yet and she should probably cook some dinner; Gene, his arm in a sling, had watched silently from the front path as his mother had headed back in to cook a stew, trying and failing to sing merrily as they waited for his father to come back home.

"Hunt! Gis a sweet!"

"Don't 'ave any," he yelled, turning as footsteps sounded beside his seat. The teacher had dozed off in her chair, snoring softly; nobody to stop them then, he thought as William Jamieson pulled him out of his seat, serving him what was meant to be a backhander across the face but turned into a punch to the wall when Gene ducked.

A swift knee in the groin, a push to the floor, and Gene's work was done, standing over his opponent as he lay groaning in the aisle of the bus, clutching his groin as he rolled from side to side.

Gene would have claimed total victory if William hadn't managed to grab his ankle and tug him to the floor as well, the pair of them beginning to serve each other fist sandwiches as the entire bus chanted "Fight! Fight! Fight!" and the teacher woke with a start, leaping up to yank the two boys apart, holding them at arms' length as they squirmed and panted, still trying to kick each other.

"What on earth do you two think you're doin'? Who started it?"

"William," Brian Davis yelled immediately, before any of William's friends could get a word in edgeways. The teacher's lips clamped together.

"Thank you, Davis. Jamieson, you come an' sit next to me. Hunt, sit down and behave, just because 'e 'it you doesn't mean you 'ave to 'it back."

"Yes, Miss," Gene muttered, sliding back down into his seat and pulling his rucksack back onto his lap again, grinning innocently at William as he was manhandled into his seat at the front of the coach, his sulky expression only tempered by the fresh black eye he was sporting. Gene quietly congratulated himself.

In the tumult, he'd forgotten he felt sick; the nausea had all but gone now. A smug smile still on his face, Gene turned round to play another round of Top Trumps with Brian, ignoring the ache in his stomach where William had punched a fresh bruise. _Win some an' lose some an' all that._

The roads flashed by outside, each metre taking the coach closer to London, closer to St George's and the adventures everyone was hoping it would bring.

* * *

><p>"Price? Are you concentrating?"<p>

"Erm… yes, Miss."

"What was I just talking about, Price?"

"You were talking about short division, Miss."

"Then can you give me your answer to question ten, Price?"

"Five, Miss."

"Well done, that's correct… Forester, I heard that, you be quiet now! Ignore her, Price. Now then, we shall move on to English- everybody get your copies of English in Action out, please."

Alex risked a look over to Amelia Forester's smug grin, her whisper of 'swot' just loud enough for Alex to hear, along with her giggling with her friends either side. Eyes prickling with tears, Alex lifted the lid of her desk and blocked Amelia out, pulling her textbook out and resting it on her lap, wishing for the millionth time that she was more popular.

* * *

><p>Twenty miles to go, and the coach had hit London, every Mancunian eye glued to the window as shops and roads and houses went by, watching out for anything interesting, yells and squeals from the girls accompanying anything of note. The driver and teacher were puzzling over a map together, scratching their heads and hoping not to get lost as the children drank in every detail of London they could.<p>

Gene couldn't help feeling just a little disappointed at what he was seeing, as the coach grumbled on and more of London was displayed to his eager eyes; some parts seemed almost like a concrete version of Manchester, lacking only the cobblestones and the gossiping housewives, gaining instead tarmac streets and high-rise buildings, the odd drunk or tramp slouched in an alleyway. In fact, Gene thought idly as he turned his head away from a man taking a slash on someone's parked car, it wasn't quite as appealing as his homeland, somehow more grim and impersonal, lacking the something that made Manchester what it was. But maybe, he consoled himself, he was looking at the wrong bit. Maybe the London they showed on the television was just round the corner, and they were just about to see it, in all its glory.

But when they did turn a corner, it was into the parking area of a school, gravel crunching under the wheels of the coach as it came to a shuddering halt in front of the sign saying 'ST. GEORGE'S CATHEDRAL CATHOLIC PRIMARY SCHOOL'.

The teacher and driver breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Is that it?" Gene muttered to Brian Davis, distinctly nonplussed by the appearance of the school; he'd been expecting something quite grand, something modern and shiny, not the old-fashioned brick building in front of him, peeling paint on the windows, smudged glass and faded paint on the tarmac playground beside the school. At least they had monkey bars.

"Come on then! Everyone out! Don't leave anythin' behind!" the teacher called, stepping off the coach and chivvying William Jamieson out in front of her. Gene and Brian shrugged at each other, slinging their rucksacks on their backs and following their teacher down the steps.

The door of the school opened as the coach finally emptied of chattering Mancunians, their teacher trying and failing to line them up at the side of the coach and eventually letting them scatter into their groups; the woman who strode out of St George's, followed by another woman and a stream of children, did not look like someone who would take kindly to naughty Northern children, glaring at the rabble clustered in front of her school as though surveying a litter of mongrel puppies. Gene stuck by Brian's side, and Brian stuck by his, survival instincts kicking in as William Jamieson rejoined his friends and began to edge towards the pair, one eye narrowed, the other swollen from Gene's punch.

"Is everyone here?"

The voice of the St George's headmistress could have cut through diamonds, it was so sharp; Gene winced, leaning back against the dirty side of the coach as their teacher cleared her throat, calling for quiet.

"Right then. This is Mrs Hingston, she's the headmistress of St George's an' from now until you board this coach to go 'ome. you are under 'er command, she is in effect your teacher. That does not mean to say you aren't answerable to me as well though, because you most certainly are. That means you too, Hunt."

Gene put on his innocent face, standing up straight as Mrs Hingston stepped forwards, her gaze fixed on him.

"Name?"

_Bugger. Why'd she 'ave ter pick on me?_

"Gene Hunt, Miss."

"Gene or Jean?"

_There's only one version of Gene! What's she on about? Bloody 'ell, 'ave I just landed meself in with a lot o' nutters? Askin' trap questions ter try an' figure out 'ow smart yer are? I bloody 'ate those._

Gene, confused, glanced at Brian, as though the answer were printed on his forehead; the teacher interrupted hurriedly, smiling placatingly at Gene.

"Eugene, but we don't use full names at our school. We feel Gene's old enough to choose 'is own name if 'e wants to."

"Bear in mind, Hunt, that you will be known by your full name at this school," Mrs Hingston said firmly, moving forwards. "And I have my eye on you. One millisecond of trouble from you, and you'll be on your way back to Manchester so fast your eyes will pop. Is that crystal clear, _Eugene_?"

Gene was about to throw a smart answer her way, but Brian's elbow in his side made him reconsider.

"Yes, Miss," he muttered, fixing his eyes on the ground so that Mrs Hingston couldn't accuse him of looking 'impudent' like the teachers back in Manchester always did. Gene didn't even know what the word meant.

"I think we'd best pair you up with someone who will be a good influence on you," Mrs Hingston said coldly, turning to survey the children clustered behind her, standing in three quiet lines as though by instinct. "Emily Ward, note the names down, please."

A girl with a long blonde ponytail lifted an immaculate clipboard, pencil at the ready, looking so tidy Gene felt grimy even standing across the parking area from her.

"Eugene Hunt will be partnered with… Alex Price."

Gene didn't know quite what to expect from that name, craning to see who would step forwards, along with everyone else. _Please say 'e's OK with 'avin' just a little punch-up. If Brian's partnered up with someone else, I'll need someone ter watch my back if Jamieson an' Co. come an' find me._

His eyes widened almost painfully as a little, timid-looking girl stepped forwards, her mousy brown hair in plaits on either side of her head, clutching her pink satchel as though it were the last life ring on the _Titanic._

Gene felt his stomach drop.

He'd been partnered with a _girl_?

* * *

><p>The moment Mrs Hingston's eyes had landed on her, Alex knew she was in trouble.<p>

As first impressions went, Eugene's hadn't been too bad, if a little sulky; he wasn't repulsive, or at least she didn't think so, and his fluffy blond hair lent him a cute, boyish look that Alex found quite intriguing. But she didn't think he'd be that academic, and he certainly didn't look the tolerant sort; his legs, from the glimpse she'd got below his ridden-up trouser legs as he stepped off the bus, were a myriad of healing cuts and bruises, and a day-old bruise on his cheek gave him the aura of someone not afraid to get into a brawl or two. He was neatly turned out, in a white shirt and polished black shoes, but his socks were grey and old and the jumper covering his shirt was crumpled and slightly tattered, unravelling in places. Alex's mother would never have let her out of the house dressed like that.

Maybe Eugene's family was poor. Her mother had told her that people in the North weren't as rich as the people in the South. She'd also said they were more violent and uncouth; Eugene hadn't quite confirmed this, but he hadn't denied it either.

Well, at least she was partnered with someone who would be interesting for this project. She doubted Eugene would turn out to be boring.

She offered him a smile, relieved when he just about returned it, and led him into the classroom designated for them, ignoring the sniggers as they passed Amelia Forester and her friends on the way.


	2. Chapter 2

Bugger. A _girl._

And not just a girl. A small, meek, mousy little girl, who couldn't have been more than six. Who would be no match whatsoever for William Jamieson and John Carter, should they choose to have a pop at him. He'd just have to hope that Brian's partner was reasonably good in a punch-up, and try to get the table next to theirs.

That said, this would be a walk in the park. He wouldn't have to do a millisecond of work, from the looks of things- this Alex Price would do the lot.

_From the looks of 'er, she could write bloody War an' Peace without breakin' a sweat. Prob'ly speaks Latin an' all._

Hopefully he could use this golden opportunity to stay out of the way of that Mrs Hingston for a while as well. As in, until they went back to Manchester.

Alex sat down at a table, beckoning for Gene to take the chair opposite; he sat down, feeling a bit apprehensive, slouching back and dropping his bag to the floor unceremoniously. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brian and his partner, a weedy-looking boy of about eight with thick glasses and hair so red he could have been mistaken for a traffic light. Not only conspicuous, but undoubtedly useless in a fight of any kind. Gene sighed, tipping the chair back until his head rested on the wall, turning as Alex coughed quietly, her cheeks almost as scarlet as Brian's partner's hair.

"Eugene?"

"If yer goin' ter call me Eugene, I may as well go an' join Brian. It's not my name. My name's Gene."

"But Mrs Hingston called you Eugene…"

"Yeah, an' nobody else does."

"Your mummy must call you Eugene. She named you it."

Christ, he'd got a wet one. Gene swore under his breath, chuckling to himself at Alex's eyes widening to an almost painful size.

"You said- you said…!"

"I said, bugger," Gene replied, revelling in the attention as Alex's mouth dropped open, her gasp caught in her throat. She was wet, but with a bit of luck, he could have some fun teasing her.

"You're not allowed to say that!"

"Am too. My dad says it all the time."

"Your dad's a naughty man. He shouldn't say bad words, especially in front of children."

Gene didn't quite know how to reply to that. He'd called his father many things in his time, most of which would probably send little Alex down in a dead faint, but 'naughty' hadn't been one of them. He decided to change the subject.

"Mm. What's this project then?"

"We have to pick something to do with London, and do a project on it," Alex replied, her posh accent enough to cut glass. Gene laughed.

"What?"

"Yer a right posh one! What d'yer parents do?"

"They're solicitors."

Gene laughed again, lifting a pen and scribbling on the piece of paper in front of him. Just the right kind for graffiti-writing on desks- nice and thick, nice and dark, and a real job for the cleaners to get off. Now he had to think of something that rhymed with Hingston, and try to figure out how it was spelled.

"Yeah, yer posh. 'Ow many million pounds they earn every year? What size is yer mansion?"

"We've got four bedrooms," Alex answered honestly, a little unnerved by Gene's examination of her family. "What about you? Mummy said people in the North are poorer than people in the South, and Manchester's really far North, so you must be very poor."

"We're alright," Gene said, his cheeks red. He picked the pen back up and started doodling again, drawing a crude impersonation of Mrs Hingston and himself holding Stu's bow and arrows about to shoot her. Alex, not yet possessing enough tact to change the subject, continued.

"Mummy said most people up there only have one room in their houses. How do you fit everything in? It must be really horrible when your mummy's cooking something smelly."

"We've got five rooms, _thanks,_" Gene muttered, adding in blood spurting from Mrs Hingston's chest. Lots of it.

"Only five? We've got lots and lots. Does your mummy have to ask your dad for money to buy your Sunday roast?"

"Don't 'ave a Sunday roast. Only on Easter Sunday."

Or if he managed to sneak something under his jumper in the shop on Saturday. Gene's father never brought money home, having spent the lot at the pub, but still expected his dinner on the table despite this.

"Really? Does your mummy have to beg people?"

"No she does not!"

"Does your dad come home and hit you with his belt?"

Gene snapped.

"SHUT UP!" he yelled, leaping from his chair, letting it crash back onto the floor behind him. "Shut up!"

The room was suddenly silent, the only sound Gene's heavy breathing; Alex shrank back in her chair, too scared to look at Gene, crossing her arms defensively even as the tears welled in her eyes.

"I was only asking," she said in a tiny, tremulous voice, letting the first tear spill down her cheek.

_Ah shit, now you've made 'er cry. Nice one, Gene. Even if she is a bloody nosy cow._

"Gene, I think you'd best come with me for a minute," his teacher said softly, reaching out to grasp Gene by the elbow, gently leading him away. Gene tried to pull away, giving up when the teacher took both his arms, gripping more firmly, walking after her with his head bowed as sound slowly crept back into the room.

"What was that about?" his teacher asked as soon as they reached the corridor, parking Gene one side and perching on the radiator on the other. Gene studied the floor, hoping desperately he wouldn't be sent back to Manchester so early on. _I'm not lettin' that smug bitch Mrs Hingston think she was right all along about me._

"She asked if my dad 'it me with 'is belt."

"Oh."

The teacher paused, a contemplative frown on her face; Gene pressed his back against the wall, looking anywhere but the teacher, playing with a loose thread from his jumper.

"I can see why you blew up, Gene, but that doesn't make it any better. You upset Alex an' Mrs Hingston will be askin' me if you should be goin' back to Manchester. I'll make your excuses, but you have to reign in that temper of yours, young man. You understand?"

Gene nodded once, gritting his teeth.

"Do you want me to talk to Alex? Tell her-"

"No!"

"Gene, calm down. Nobody'll tell her anythin' unless you say so. Are you goin' to go back in there an' apologise to Alex?"

"Only if she apologises too."

"I think an apology is needed from her too. Come on, Gene, chin up- you were so excited this morning!"

"That was before I knew my partner was goin' ter be a _girl_," Gene muttered under his breath, reluctantly letting his teacher shepherd him back into the hall and direct him over to a tearful Alex and a fuming Mrs Hingston. Gene had to give her credit, her impression of a bull with a red-hot poker up its arse was pretty realistic. Even if he was observing it in the same way a criminal on Death Row might survey their electric chair.

_In trouble with 'er again. I may as well sign my bloody death certificate an' 'ave it out the way._

"Eugene Hunt. In trouble already, are we? I knew you were trouble the moment I saw you. Alex has been in floods of tears, this is quite out of order. I've a good mind to call your parents and have them collect-"

"Actually, I think apologies are deserved from both sides," Gene's teacher interrupted firmly, pulling Gene forwards. "Alex asked Gene quite a rude question: I'm not excusin' his behaviour, but it wasn't unfounded."

Mrs Hingston sniffed, her nose pinching as though she found Gene foul-smelling. Gene did his best to reign in a glare.

"And could I ask what this question-"

"Sorry, Gene," Alex said quietly, cutting her headmistress off mid-sentence. "I was being silly. I'll try not to do it again."

She met Gene's eyes underneath her hair, her own watery but wide with honesty; Gene sighed under his breath, wetting his lips as the two teachers watched him expectantly.

"Sorry, Alex. I won't blow up at yer again."

The apology left a bitter taste in his mouth- Gene Hunt _never _apologised, especially when he didn't think it was his fault- but at the sight of Alex's small, shy smile, it dissipated.

Well, she'd stood up for him, in her own way. He owed her that much.

* * *

><p>Playtime found Gene perched on top of the monkey bars in the playground, playing yet another game of Top Trumps with Brian as Alex swung up and down beneath them, occasionally surfacing to whisper a hint in one boy or another's ear; Brian's partner Joseph had skulked off to the library, a place no self-respecting Mancunian eight-year-old would follow, but thankfully Alex had felt like some exercise and had accompanied the boys outside. And, she thought idly as she swung round to go back again and tried not to hit Gene's dangling ankle, if she stuck to the monkey bars, Amelia Forester would stay away. Gene had shown himself to be quite capable of getting angry, and Amelia wouldn't risk his wrath just to get in one more snipe at Alex.<p>

"I win!" Gene announced triumphantly as he snatched Brian's last card from him, holding the whole pack up above his head, victorious. Brian groaned, trying to grab the cards back and unbalancing himself; Gene hurriedly caught him, helping Brian get back up onto his perch.

"Yer worse than Christopher Skelton."

They looked over at the corner of the playground in unison, just in time to see Christopher running after William Jamieson, who had his lunch in one hand and his bag in the other. Brian rolled his eyes.

"Nobody's worse than Christopher Skelton."

"Gene? Can you help me up?" Alex's voice called from beneath them, one small hand waving through the gap between the bars; Gene hauled her up to sit with them, forgetting he was still holding the Top Trumps and managing to spill them all over the tarmac beneath the monkey bars.

"Gene!" Brian howled, dropping to the ground to collect his cards up; Gene rolled his eyes, ignoring the little voice in his head saying he should get down and help him. He turned instead to watch Christopher Skelton again, his eyebrows rising and then pursing together as he saw William Jamieson and John Carter heading his way, having dumped Christopher's things in a tree and left him to jump up hopelessly at them.

"Stay up 'ere, Alex," he told her quickly, wriggling between the bars and down to the tarmac. Alex watched with wide eyes, stifling a gasp as she saw the two boys approaching from the other side of the playground, both bigger and older than Gene and Brian, both squaring their shoulders and snarling at the two boys beneath her.

"Gis the Top Trumps."

"Piss off," Gene spat, hands on hips, chest swelled with anger. "Go an' bully little kids like yer always do."

"Skelton's no fun after a while," William sneered, moving forwards, his black eye resplendent against his spotty face. "You want a fight, little Eugene?"

"If yer think yer tough enough."

The boys glared at each other, both trying to stare the other out; Alex saw John Carter approaching from the rear, realising with a rush of anxiety that John would grab Gene from behind, leaving him completely vulnerable to William…

Only one thing for it, then. Gene was _her _partner.

Just as John approached, she swung her foot back, smacking him full in the face with the heel of her shoe.

"OW!" John screamed, clutching his face with both hands; Mrs Pankhurst ran over to see what had happened, immediately halting any prospect of a fight between Gene and William as she began tending to John.

"He walked into my foot, Mrs Pankhurst," Alex said innocently, putting on her best 'oh-dear-poor-person' face as William scowled and Gene tried his hardest not to laugh, hurriedly scurrying back up the monkey bars and pulling Brian up behind him.

"Please watch where you're going, dear," Mrs Pankhurst advised John, heading off to deal with a wailing Christopher Skelton; Gene grinned down at the two boys from on high, his grin only growing as they skulked off, hands in pockets and growling up at him that they would get him at the hotel later.

"Nice work, Alex," Brian laughed, shuffling the pack of Top Trumps once again; Gene smiled shyly at her, reaching out to gently punch her shoulder.

"Thanks fer watchin' our backs."

"It was surprisingly satisfying," Alex replied, a beam on her own face. Gene ducked his head, watching her from under his scruffy fringe; maybe she wasn't too bad, for a girl especially…

"You watch my back, an' I'll watch yours." Gene held his hand out formally, his bright blue eyes glittering as they met hers. Alex glanced down at his hand and then back to him, the smile on her face growing slightly as she reached out to shake with him, grasping his warm, rough hand for a second longer than necessary as she basked in this new-found friendship and protection.

Brian grinned at her, and dealt her a hand of Top Trumps cards.

* * *

><p>The hotel the coachful of Mancunian children was unloaded in front of wasn't five-star, or even two-star, but provided cheap rooms and cheaper food and was less than an hour from the school, and so had been hastily booked a couple of days before when their headteacher realised they would need somewhere to sleep during their stay. The building didn't look particularly welcoming, streaky concrete covered in scrubby ivy and leaking drainpipes, but the plump Cockney woman who came out and started fussing over the children seemed welcoming enough to make up for her depressing guest-house.<p>

After a rather unsatisfying dinner of sandwiches and crisps, Gene and Brian were given the keys for a three-bed room and told firmly to keep them safe and not be too mean to their room-mate, Christopher Skelton, who grinned goofily at the older boys as he lugged his bulging rucksack along to their room. Gene and Brian shrugged at each other, rolling their eyes as Christopher demanded to be let into the room.

"I want the top bunk!" he squealed as soon as he'd pushed the door open, running over to the bunk bed and tripping on the corner of the rug in front of it, sprawling on the floor like a puppy on an ice rink. Gene sniggered, climbing up into the top bunk and depositing his bag there as Christopher blinked up at him and immediately ran to claim the single bed by the window.

"I got the bed by the window!" he sang, unzipping his bag and pulling a copy of _The Beano _out. Gene eyed it wistfully, lying back on his bunk and studying the damp-stained ceiling for something to do, shifting to try and get comfortable on the lumpy mattress.

_Welcome ter London. Pick up a bad back while yer 'ere._

"D'yer reckon we could get somethin' else ter eat?" Brian asked dolefully, rubbing his stomach; Gene leaned over the side of his bunk, eyeing him upside-down in thought. Christopher giggled.

"We could nick somethin' from the kitchens."

"Are yer goin' ter steal somethin'?" Christopher asked excitedly, abandoning his _Beano _on the bed and leaping up, staring at the two older boys. Gene rolled his eyes.

"We're not takin' you. Only if we actually wanted ter get caught."

Christopher fell silent, trying to work out what he meant; Gene sighed under his breath, leaping down from his bunk and crouching to tie his lace. This could be fun, sneaking out to steal food, like posh kids at boarding schools sometimes did.

"I could be the lookout," Christopher said suddenly, sensing that the two older boys were contemplating leaving him behind. "I could stand there an' make sure nobody came."

Gene and Brian exchanged looks, raising their eyebrows; the idea had merit, and if the worst came to the worst, only Christopher would get into trouble and they'd hear and be able to run.

"OK," Brian said decisively, leaping up from his bunk and grabbing the room keys, motioning for the other two boys to come closer. "We grab whatever's nearest ter the door, an' run back. You stand outside the kitchen, an' tell us if someone's comin' inter the kitchen, so we can hide or run. OK? An' if yer mess up, Skelton, yer won't live ter see next week."

Christopher nodded solemnly, the sincerity on his five-year-old face shining out.

"I won't mess up."

Gene and Brian glanced at each other again, shrugged and pocketed the room keys, sliding the door open and beckoning for Christopher to stay close as they headed out into the dark corridor.

The smell of roast potatoes led them to the kitchen, two large oak doors standing slightly ajar as the lady of the house whistled merrily, bustling about; Gene and Brian exchanged glances, crouched on the floor outside the kitchen, motioning for Christopher to stand at the entrance and remain silent as they eased forwards with all the stealth of a hunting panther and one small hand pushed the door slightly open, three young mouths watering at the smell of thick salty pork. Gene licked his lips, staring at the tray of roast potatoes three feet from him, almost within arm's reach: yes, that was his target. He nudged Brian, pointing to it, and got an affirmatory nod back. _Target confirmed._

"Run," Brian whispered, holding the door further open as the woman busied herself with a book, sinking into an armchair on the other side of the kitchen. Facing half away from the roast potatoes as she was, Gene figured he could just about sneak in, grab the tray and get out of there before she turned round. He'd done this before, sneaking food from the kitchen while his father drank in his favourite armchair, snatching it and running up the stairs before his father could hear or see him through the haze of alcohol.

Still crouched as low as possible, knees brushing the carpet, Gene slid through the doors and reached up to grasp the handles at either end of the tray, carefully and silently lifting it off the countertop and into his protective grasp.

Edging backwards, Gene eased out of the doors, straightening up and running the rest of the way back to his room, Brian and Christopher hot on his heels and whooping in triumph.

"You did it!" Brian yelled as they tumbled through their bedroom door, locking it behind them as Gene put the tray down on the floor, taking one perfectly-roasted potato and stuffing it whole into his mouth, chewing with a look of bliss on his small face. Christopher attempted to do the same and choked; Brian rolled his eyes at him, munching on his own potato with his oily lips curved in a huge grin.

"Yummy," he mumbled, diving in for another one.

Twenty minutes later and the empty tray was hidden, the light out, and three incredibly full boys fast asleep, Christopher snuffling quietly by the window and Brian snoring softly on the lower bunk as Gene curled up under his duvet above him, one thumb just in front of his mouth, as though he'd just grown out of sucking it. His spare hand grasped a tattered blanket, hidden under the duvet; he'd sprayed it with his mother's perfume when his father wasn't there so that he could smell it whenever he needed to, cursing himself for being a soft nancy all the while. Eileen Hunt had glimpsed the corner of it sticking out of Gene's rucksack and simply smiled to herself, glad that her husband couldn't deny him this one little comfort.

He dreamed of his mam, and Alex, and running through the faceless streets of London as his father chased after him with the belt, turning the air blue with his curses as Gene's legs became enmeshed in thin air and his father got closer and closer and closer.

* * *

><p>A handful of miles away, in her baby-pink bedroom, Alex Price was also fast asleep, curled round her teddy bear as her parents snored softly in the bedroom opposite.<p>

She dreamed of them, and of Gene, cowering in the corner of a dingy, smelly little room as a faceless man raised his hand to him, watching as he struck Gene again and again with his belt, ignoring his son's screaming, as she thrashed against the invisible restraints all around her to try and stop him.

* * *

><p>AN: My humble little offering! Please, pretty please, review- I got loads of lovely reviews for chapter one, it really helps if people just write a line or two saying what they think. You're all wonderful people! Massive thanks to you if you review, and I'll come and trip you up if you don't. That's right. I have new Converse, ideal for tripping people up. *evil look* Jazzola :D


	3. Chapter 3

Gene was rudely awoken at six in the morning by a whirlwind of Skelton and mismatched pyjamas jumping on his bed, shaking him until he swiped the younger boy's hands off his arms; Christopher was whimpering, eyes glistening as Gene sat up, glaring tired daggers at him as the younger boy shifted and accidentally bent Gene's knee backwards.

"Ow! What?"

"Brian wouldn't wake up, told me ter piss off… can you 'elp me?"

"What with?"

Christopher's bottom lip trembled; Gene looked round at the bed by the window, realisation dawning as he saw the dark yellowy stain that spread across the sheets and the wet pair of pyjama bottoms next to it. _Oh._

"Yer wet the bed?"

"Promise not ter laugh?"

The tears were flowing freely down Christopher's face now, dripping onto Gene's duvet. Try as he might, Gene couldn't find it in himself to tease him, opting instead for sliding out of bed and tugging Christopher after him as he went to survey the damage. The duvet seemed to be dry enough, but the bedsheet was soaked through from edge to edge, a faint smell of urine beginning to waft into the room as Gene wrinkled his nose.

"What were yer dreamin' of, a flood?"

"You promised not ter laugh!"

"Do I look like I'm bloody laughin'? You get the duvet off, an' the pillows. I'll strip the sheets."

Nodding jerkily, Christopher seized the duvet in both arms, wiping his teary face on the edge; Gene tried not to breathe in as he leaned over the bed, sparing a snoring Brian one irritated glance as he yanked the sheets off and rumpled them into a ball at the foot of the bed, praising a God he didn't quite believe in that it hadn't seeped onto the mattress. Christopher watched him silently, arms still full of duvet and pillow.

"Put them down. The airin' cupboard'll be along 'ere somewhere."

Christopher nodded miserably, depositing the bedclothes on the floor as Gene quietly unlocked the door, beckoning to the younger boy to follow him as he slipped out.

His bare feet padded comfortably on the thick oatmeal carpet as he headed down the corridor, checking the doors as he went, Christopher trailing behind him with his thumb firmly in his mouth whenever Gene wasn't looking; the hotel was almost silent in the early-morning tranquillity, only the odd snore of rustle of bedclothes pervading the still cool air. The voice of their teacher rang out as they tiptoed past her room, making them both jump; for a horrible moment Gene thought they had been rumbled, but then the teacher muttered something about a workbench and a pair of underpants and the panic was replaced by hurriedly-stifled giggles. Slipping past, Gene's questing fingers finally found the airing cupboard, dumping Christopher's damp sheets on the floor in a pile and selecting a fresh set.

"They'll fit yer bed."

Christopher nodded, chin wobbling as Gene pulled the sheets down from the shelf and shoved the damp ones in a bag of dirty linen on the floor.

A door banged somewhere behind them, making both boys jump; a handle squeaked, and then the sound of whistling travelled down the corridor towards them, footsteps thudding on the thick carpet and  
>getting steadily louder as a portly shadow appeared on the wall just round the corner from the two children now stood stock still, staring as the shadow slowly grew.<p>

"She'll find us!" Christopher whimpered, clinging to Gene, one hand grabbing a fistful of Gene's T-shirt; Gene carefully disentangled himself, dumping the fresh sheets in Christopher's arms and closing the airing cupboard door.

"So what if she does?"

"She'll find out!"

"Say you spilt yer drink. Works every time."

This was familiar territory to him, late-night trips to find fresh sheets with a small boy clinging to him; the only difference was that it was a little brown-haired boy this time, rather than one with a head of wild blond curls, and Christopher was whimpering rather than talking as Stu always did, whispering a description of his nightmare to Gene as his older brother listened patiently, changing the sheets on his bed as Stu sat on the cold floor shivering and cuddled his teddy hard. When their mother came in in the morning and found the wet sheets in the corner, she would know every single time, and save Stu the embarrassment by silently accepting Gene's explanation, even though the boys never took drinks up to their bedroom.

The whistling came nearer, loud and surprisingly tuneful; Gene took Christopher's elbow to lead them back to their room, eager to avoid confrontation and potential trouble, but the little boy was glued to the spot with fear, his eyes fixed on the shadow before him, the gradually expanding silhouette of a large woman carrying a pile of towels, approaching the corner, turning it, stopping dead as she saw the two little boys in the corridor, one holding a pile of bedlinen as the other tugged on his elbow and hissed for him to move.

"You alright?" she asked softly, bending with some difficulty to Christopher's height with a kindly smile; Gene nodded, giving up on tugging Christopher's elbow and standing up straight, contemplating dragging the little bugger back to their room and confiscating his _Beano _as Christopher just about managed a smile, his cheeks beetroot red.

"Spilt my drink," he said in a small voice, holding the clean sheets up. The woman beamed indulgently, ruffling the scruffy brown hair just showing above the bedclothes.

"Oh dear! Never mind. Maybe your friend can help you put the new sheets on?"

Gene gritted his teeth, aching to tell the woman that Christopher wasn't his friend, but just then she took two huge lollipops out of her pocket and the thought vanished completely.

"A little treat for you," she told them with a wink, handing Gene a red one as Christopher all but seized the orange one. "Don't go telling your friends, or they'll all want one!"

"Thanks," Gene mumbled, tugging fruitlessly on Christopher's arm once again. "Come on, Christopher, we need ter get back ter bed." Better they were out of the way before she discovered the wet sheets; she might seem kindly, but Gene had long since learnt that adults could turn at the slightest thing, and that there was always a belt or a cane hiding somewhere, ready for them to whip out and start beating him with. His T-shirt didn't quite cover the bruises on his chest; if she saw them, she'd guess what a bad boy he was, and might give him a beating just for that. His father did that all the time.

"Thank you!" Christopher squealed as he allowed Gene to pull him away, heading back towards their room with a huge grin on his face. Gene rolled his eyes, quietly unlocking their door and ushering Christopher in in front of him, pulling a face at the sight of Brian still blissfully unconscious on his bunk, snoring the house down.

"Bastard," he muttered, standing Christopher in the middle of the room as he began making his bed, draping the duvet and pillows over it and standing back with his hands on his hips, nodding to himself.

"There. Now go back ter sleep, it's only ten past six."

"Thank you, Gene," Christopher said tremulously, beaming at the older boy; Gene snorted, turning to climb up into his own bed.

"Only did it 'cos I didn't want yer whinin' an' stoppin' me sleepin'."

"But you still 'elped me," Christopher said, the smile still in place even as his chin wobbled. "The other boys just steal my things or tease me."

"Yeah, well. They're stupid." Gene quickly faked a yawn, careful not to appear too soft in case Christopher quoted him somewhere. "Get some sleep."

"Thank you," Christopher repeated, hurrying forwards to wrap his arms round Gene's waist as the older boy attempted to climb back onto his bunk; Gene jumped, his foot slipping off the ladder, with the result that the pair of them landed on Brian's bunk, a loud 'oof!' coming from Brian as Gene's elbow winded him.

"What?" he hissed, rubbing his tummy and sitting up, staring blearily at Gene; Gene clambered awkwardly off him, hoping he'd just go back to sleep, but just then Brian's eyes focused on something in Gene's hand, widening greedily.

"Hey- where'd yer get the lolly from…?"

Gene grinned, pushing Christopher towards his bed and scurrying up the ladder, pulling the duvet up over himself.

"Fer us ter know an' you not ter find out. Right, Christopher!"

"Right!" Christopher chirruped, waving his own lolly in the air. Gene rolled his eyes, snuggling into the thick pillows and carefully stowing his own lolly underneath them.

He didn't stay awake long enough to see Christopher fall asleep, the massive grin still on his face.

* * *

><p>Caroline Price sat sipping her morning tea at the breakfast table, the news on the small television beside the refridgerator and her husband attempting the crossword in his newspaper. The sips were few and far between, and Tim hadn't managed more than five of the crossword clues, because both were busy staring at their daughter as she eagerly got ready for school, stuffing cornflakes in as though she'd been fasting for a fortnight.<p>

Normally, Alex would be whining and whinging, saying she felt ill, she had a tummy ache or a headache, nibbling at her breakfast to slow them down; often she didn't even eat the whole amount before Caroline had to drag her out of the front door because they were going to be late. But today… today Alex seemed as though she _wanted _to go to school.

Caroline had no doubt what this was about. Alex had spent the whole of last night yapping on about Gene Hunt, her new friend from Manchester, telling her how Gene lived in a tiny house with only five rooms and only ate a Sunday roast at Easter, how he played with his friends in the ruins of a bombed house and threw bricks through the windows of factories when their owners treated the workers badly. She had gone into detail on their joint project, the policing of London, and her plans to talk to a nearby DCI and set up their own crime scene somewhere, planning it with fridge magnets and an enthusiasm Caroline doubted she'd ever seen in her little daughter.

She had yet to be convinced that Gene would be a good influence on Alex, but something seemed to be working.

Alex pushed the empty bowl of cereal aside, dragging Caroline back to the present, and leaped off her chair, grabbing her schoolbag and running towards the door, hopping on one foot as she squealed for her mother to get the car keys.

Caroline picked them up in silence, draping her bag over her shoulder as she headed towards the door, more to stop Alex having some kind of accident than anything else.

Tim could only stare wordlessly, his newspaper hanging forgotten from one hand as Alex begged her mother to get her to school ten minutes early.

* * *

><p>After a small breakfast of porridge and jam- Gene was half convinced the landlady was trying to starve them- and a hectic roll call outside while he tried to trip William Jamieson up without the teachers noticing as John Carter did his best to grab him and throw him in the scrubby bush by the door, the coachful of Mancunian children drew up outside St George's, stalling with a clatter and a putter as Mrs Hingston stalked out from the front, flanked by the other children working on the project. Not wishing for a repeat of the day before, Gene hid behind Brian, doing his best to look well-behaved; his cunning plan was promptly undone when Brian headed off to join his partner, deserting his companion right in the line of fire. Gene made a mental note to accidentally on purpose spill a drink on Brian's sheets that night.<p>

"Gene?"

Little Alex's voice whispered from beside Mrs Hingston, the girl herself standing next to her headmistress, plump cheeks flushed with excitement; Mrs Hingston fixed him with a hawk's gaze, her nose pinched in her haughty, derisory way, pulling something out of her pocket and handing it to him as Alex squirmed beside her.

"This, Eugene, is a roll of police-issue tape. You may have seen it on television. Alex informs me that your project is on policing- I have given this to you with the assurance that I will get it back, minus only what you have used for your project. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that tape of that quality is expensive, and the school budget is limited. Any playing, or messing around, or _wasting _of that tape, and you will be on the train to Manchester so fast you won't know what's happening. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Eugene?"

"Yes, Miss," Gene muttered, eyes fixed on the tape as he turned it over in his fingers. _Snooty old witch. Wish we were in Manchester so I could set my mates on you. They'd 'ave all yer windows smashed in seconds._

Mrs Hingston jerked her head down, patted Alex's shoulder and walked away, her sensible shoes clopping on the tarmac. Gene whinnied under his breath, making Alex giggle.

"She's not that bad really. She's just really strict."

"Sure. Where're we startin', then?"

"Are you any good at acting?"

Gene frowned, tilting his head up. Acting didn't tend to come up all that often on the syllabus at his school, and would probably have been a disaster anyway, with the students using the 'pretend' punches they'd slip into their classes to cause a huge fight. But he liked to think he wasn't bad, and when they were in private he would put on little shows for Stu, pretending to be famous actors or cowboys or sheriffs as Stu eagerly played along, telling him what to act out next, be that a massive gunfight or a punch-up or being shot. Once Gene had hidden a balloon filled with crimson dye and water under his pyjamas, popping it and pretending to die in horrific pain as Stu screamed for their mother; he hadn't done that again, as seeing him lying on the floor covered in gooey crimson had almost given Mrs Hunt a heart attack. It did pay tribute to his acting skills, though.

"I'm good at pretendin' ter be dead."

"Good!" Alex clapped her hands together, jumping up and down on the spot; Gene had an absurd urge to put her in a brightly-painted box and wind her up. "I asked for the tape because I thought we could make crime scenes where people have been killed, and one of us could be the person, and we could put clues in the pictures and label them, because that's what police do. Do you want to do that?"

Gene considered, grinning. _Nobody else is goin' ter be doin' anythin' this excitin'. _Brian had informed him, gloomily, that his project with his partner Saul was on London Poets; Christopher's was the Underground. Christopher's involvement stretched to colouring in the names of the tube stations and drawing trains on the poster his partner Micky was making.

"Yeah. Sounds great."

"Brilliant!" Alex's voice was at least an octave higher than usual with excitement; Gene winced. _Christ, any 'igher an' she'll do me eardrums in._

Their conversation soon turned into an argument on where to do the murders, and what they would do; Gene was all for doing one with himself hanging off the roof, but his teacher told him very firmly that they wouldn't let him up on the roof, and if he tried to climb the school like he had in Year One he'd be sent straight back to Manchester. Alex wanted to do one of drowning, but since the only water nearby was in a cooler they had to admit defeat on that one. So they were reduced to the school hall, the pavement outside, and a couple of possible forays into the city around them for crime scenes.

"Perhaps someone tipped their chair too far back and broke their neck?" Alex suggested, grabbing a chair. Gene shook his head.

"It 'as ter be a murder. Maybe yer could 'ave the upturned chair an' stuff, but the person's been stabbed ter death with- with a fountain pen."

He knew from experience how sharp fountain pens were; Brian's had left a scar an inch long on his forearm when he'd tripped and fallen on it. Alex's eyes widened, her jaw dropping.

"A fountain pen can kill you?"

"Yup." Gene picked hers up, testing the tip. "If yer cover this in fake blood…"

The art department was reluctant, but Gene, using his cute-little-boy charms, eventually wangled some red paint and a few pots of water to wash it off afterwards; the other children in the hall watched curiously as Alex lay down next to the upturned chair and Gene covered her chest in red paint, dipping the fountain pen in it and putting it down next to her as Alex did her best to assimilate having fallen.

"Quit squirmin'!" Gene groaned as Alex moved for the umpteenth time and managed to tip most of the paint on her front onto the floor. Alex glanced down at her chest, a grin on her face.

"It really looks like I've been stabbed."

"If yer don't stop movin' around yer will be stabbed," Gene muttered, sticking his tongue out as he lathered more red onto Alex's front. He looked so innocent and boyish in that one second that Alex almost giggled at him, but hurriedly suppressed the urge and pretended to be dead as Gene stepped away and picked up the camera entrusted to Alex by Mrs Hingston.

"Don't bother sayin' cheese."

The bright light made everything go red for a second, and then Gene was hauling her up, wiping her front with a towel and grimacing at the paint on her top.

"Sorry."

"That's alright. Mummy can clean it."

Gene gathered their things up, clutching the camera and red paint in one hand as the other held the tape and a pot of water.

"Where next?"

Gene hit on the idea of someone being pushed off the top of the monkey bars, the clue being a single discarded glove Alex found in Lost and Found; he was all for painting himself in blood, but Mrs Pankhurst advised him that he wouldn't be bleeding and he settled for simply playing possum as his teacher taught Alex how to use the camera and took a picture. Alex wanted to move straight on to the next scene, immediately pulling Gene up to debate what to do next, but the lunch bell interrupted their musings and the two were dragged into the hall squirming and protesting to eat.

* * *

><p>"I reckon we should do a shootin' next. Can't be that 'ard ter get 'old of a fake gun," Gene mumbled through his sausage, sitting opposite to Alex in the hall with Brian slumped morosely next to him, spearing a forkful of green beans. Brian's partner Saul had spent the entire day trying to impose on Brian the importance of Christina Rossetti's poetry; Brian, who had grown up letting the air out of people's car tyres if they offended his friends, was failing miserably to grasp the concept, and was contemplating using Gene's project on policing as an excuse to murder Saul. Alex considered Gene's suggestion, delicately scooping a chicken nugget up on her fork and letting it fall onto her carrots.<p>

"Or a hit-and-run? I don't know what one of those is, but you said it."

"Hit-an'-run. 'S when someone 'its yer with their car and drives off, doesn't get 'elp. Leaves yer ter die."

"Really? But who would do that? That's horrible!"

The scandalised look on little Alex's face was almost comical; Gene looked down, unable to help a little twinge of jealousy for Alex's innocent, carefree world, the knowledge that her daddy loved her and would never do anything to harm her. Brian giggled under his breath, wincing when Gene trod on his foot under the table.

"Ow! Yer turnin' inter Ray bloody Carling, 'e always does that," Brian whinged, jerking his thumb towards a brown-haired boy on the other side of the hall, currently prodding someone with his fork to get their sausage. Gene rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, but Ray Carling doesn't do it in style like I do." His gaze found the doors, and his eyes widened as Mrs Hingston marched into the hall, wielding a register like a weapon in one hand as the other grasped her handbag, her hawk-like eyes darting round to check where all the Mancunian children were. Gene had half a mind to nick it just to show her he could.

"She's going to make an announcement," Alex whispered as Mrs Hingston climbed the steps to the stage, shoes clacking purposefully on the wooden flooring. The sharp, loud sounds drew the attention of the entire hall, even making Ray Carling stop poking his partner with his knife; within ten seconds, the room was silent.

Mrs Hingston cleared her throat, the sound echoing slightly through the hall. Gene hurriedly suppressed the urge to laugh.

"Good afternoon, children."

The London children hurriedly gave a reply of "good afternoon, Mrs Hingston"; Gene and Brian exchanged glances, mumbling along under their hair. Alex kicked Gene gently under the table.

"Thank you. Now, I have made the decision that this afternoon will be devoted, instead of to your projects, to team-building exercises. These exercises will test your ability to work as part of a team and as an individual, and hopefully you will have some fun and learn something in the process. You will remain with your partners for the majority of the time-" Brian stifled a groan- "but will join up with other children as well. The children of this school will be familiar with these exercises, but the Manchester children probably will not." Her nose pinched haughtily again; Gene wondered if he could achieve the same effect by smelling his father's discarded socks.

"When you have finished your lunch, please push your table to the side of the room and chat with your friends until the teachers come back in to organise you. I expect exemplary behaviour from you all."

With a final glare Gene's way, she left, swishing through the doors, her horsy face contorted with the effort of having Northerners in her school. Brian nudged Gene, his eyebrows pursed together.

"What's team-buildin'?"

"Team-buildin'? Probably somethin' so borin' yer'll want ter poke yer eyes out with sticks," Gene snorted through a mouthful of mashed potato, expression sceptical beyond the bulging cheeks. Alex toyed with her broccoli, the massive grin her face had sported earlier abruptly gone.

"Team-building means…"

Well, she knew all too well what team-building meant for her. The last time the school had done team-building, Alex had gone home in floods of tears after an entire afternoon of non-stop bullying and taunting from Amelia Forester and her cronies. Sniffing back tears, she glanced over at Amelia's table, hurriedly looking away again; Gene's eyes followed her glance, his eyebrows drew together as he clocked her pale face, reaching out to gently punch her shoulder.

"They won't get yer. I won't let them get yer."

Alex's eyes, swimming with tears of fright, found his, the raw honesty shining out of them, an almost primal protective instinct shining in his bright blue irises.

Suddenly, she felt like she could take on the world and his missus.

* * *

><p>AN: Hope you liked it- please remember to review! I love hearing your thoughts on my writing. Jazzola :D


	4. Chapter 4

Once, when Gene was six years old, he'd won a competition at school. Not a massive competition, or of any particular significance: his class had had a spelling competition and he'd won it by two points over Brian. He'd been so proud of himself, parading his little gold sticker in front of everyone else like a war medal, in the wonderfully innocent and self-involved way young children do.

His mother had picked him and Stu up from school that afternoon, cooing over the sticker, delighted when he told her what it was for; she'd praised him until Gene's cheeks were flushed with happiness, pulling him into a huge cuddle as soon as they were out of view of the school. Even Stu had congratulated him, although at four his tongue wasn't quite up to the word and Gene had to help him out. Gene had felt on top of the world, the best at something for the first time in his life, stroking the little gold sticker on his jumper every few seconds, as though re-living his pride.

Throughout dinner his mother had praised him, telling him what a clever boy he was, how good he was, how proud she was of him; Stu had sloped off to play upstairs afterwards, getting a little bored of Gene's constant re-telling of the test, but Gene had sat with his mother downstairs, snuggled into her, a small smile still on his face as she watched the news and stroked his hair. Safe and happy.

And then his father had come home.

The first Gene had known about it, having dozed off on his mother's chest, was the banging of the door and the shouting that his dinner better be on the bloody table or someone would be getting a smack; Eileen had tried not to wake him, easing him up and onto the cushions instead, but the moment Stephen Hunt had entered the house Gene was awake and alert, cowering away as his father's thick, tall frame filled the door, face in shadow. Eileen had hurried back through from the kitchen, holding up a plate of food like a peace offering, but Stephen had violently batted her aside, marching forwards to seize his son and yank him up, his ruddy, contorted face inches from Gene's as he yelled loudly enough to make the rafters tremble.

"What the _bloody 'ell_ are yer wearin' on yer jumper? Soft sissy nancy! Bloody pathetic bum-bandit! I'm not 'avin' no son of mine growin' up like _that_!"

The first blow had stunned him, the pain spreading slowly through his head as his throat seemed to constrict. The punches after that had just hurt.

Later, waiting to be seen in A&E, Gene had glanced down at his jumper through the haze of tears swimming in his eyes, cradling his right wrist gingerly as Eileen Hunt kept her arm protectively round him, telling anyone who dared to glance their way that Gene had been clipped by a car.

The little gold sticker was gone, not even a strip of yellow to show where it had been.

It had only made it hurt even more.

Ever since then, Gene had gone out of his way to not be rewarded at school. He'd cheeked the teachers, deliberately made mistakes in tests, even though by now they'd twigged that he was bright enough to get good marks if he wanted to. If the teachers praised him, he'd flinch away from it, although they hadn't managed to work that one out yet. Getting into trouble wasn't something he deliberately aimed for, but it wasn't something to be avoided either; after all, his father would rather he came home with red, sore hands from being caned than covered in stickers, although he'd be punished nonetheless as Stephen Hunt decided the caning obviously hadn't done its job enough.

So now, as Alex sat down next to him on the floor and the teacher called for everyone to gather round, he hoped she would allow his participation to be kept minimal. Better he never got any reward to get attached to than he did and had to leave it behind in the hotel.

He could see Amelia Forester in the corner of his eye, grinning at her friends across the room; Ray Carling took the place next to Gene, opting to leave his partner on his own in favour of a fellow Mancunian.

"Oi, Hunt, move over!"

"Piss off," Gene hissed back, elbowing Ray in the ribs as the boy tried to push him into Alex; Ray wheezed, winded by Gene's opportune prod, dropping to the floor as Mrs Pankhurst called for silence, holding her hand up until the chattering and giggling died down.

"Right. The game we're going to play is called Beanbag. I will give you a number between one and five, and you're to remember that number. Then I will call a number and throw the beanbag in the air. The children who have been given that number will stand up, and choose one of them to catch the beanbag before it falls to the floor. If you don't catch the beanbag, one member of the group has to be out. The person who catches the beanbag chooses who is out. Last person to be in from each group wins some Black Jacks. Everyone understand?"

_Phew. Yer can eat Black Jacks. _Gene found himself warming to this team-building thing.

"What 'appens when yer out?" Ray Carling asked, a cheeky smile on his face. Mrs Pankhurst frowned.

"You miss out on the fun, Raymond." Ignoring the scowl on Ray's face at the use of his full name, she stood up and pointed to Amelia Forester. "One. Two. Three. Four…"

Alex suddenly decided that she didn't want to play Beanbag today. Counting the children down to herself, she realised she would be number one. The same as Amelia Forester.

Alex didn't yet know what the word 'suicide' meant, literally or figuratively, but had she known, it would have been perfect to describe her being in the same group as Amelia Forester for anything.

Hurriedly, she turned towards Gene, hoping he'd agree to swap places with her- but she'd barely had time to catch his eye before Mrs Pankhurst was bearing down on her and pronounced her 'number one'.

Blinking back tears, Alex bowed her head, glancing back at Gene; he was staring at her, clearly trying to work out what to do, not overly keen himself to be number two, as William Jamieson had just been pronounced as. The obvious solution was to swap, but in the silent little classroom, it would be instantly obvious and they'd both lose face; he gave Alex a reassuring smile, hoping this Amelia wasn't as bad as Alex had made her out to be as the number threes went first, the beanbag plopping to the floor and Ray Carling instantly electing to be out.

_Lazy bastard, _Gene thought as Ray wandered over to a chair on the other side of the room and plopped into it, looking supremely pleased with himself for being so quick off the mark to be disqualified. The number fours kept their cool, Ray's partner Paul grabbing the beanbag at the urging of a thin-faced boy on the other side of the room; the number fives did equally well, three people scrabbling at the beanbag in unison and managing to catch it between them, all three hanging onto a corner each with the last one hanging bereft in mid-air as the three made a group decision on who would throw the beanbag back. Mrs Pankhurst was smiling, evidently under the impression that things were going swimmingly.

"Right then. Number one!"

_ Go, Alex, go!_

Alex scrambled up, desperate to be the one to catch the beanbag, to have immunity; one small hand reached out for it, face upturned to the red cloth spinning near the rafters, but a larger, stronger arm pushed her out of the way and to the floor and Alex could only watch in horror as Amelia Forester's large hand closed around the beanbag, the triumphant smirk on her face only growing as she watched Alex getting up, tears swimming in her eyes.

"Well done, Amelia! Never mind, Alex." Mrs Pankhurst was clearly under the impression that Alex had slipped; Alex ground her teeth, aching to correct her, but safe in the knowledge that it would only make Amelia even more victorious. Gene, watching anxiously from the sidelines, grinned as a plan began to formulate in his mind.

Gene scrabbled around, checking the ground for any small objects; as luck would have it, Ray's pencil sharpener had fallen out of his pocket, sitting idly beside him. Gene seized it up.

"Who would you like to be out, Amelia?"

Amelia's gleaming eyes fixed on Alex, a cruel grin twisting her mouth; Alex looked down, waiting for the hammer blow to fall, praying that the tears blurring her vision wouldn't spill over and give Amelia even more satisfaction-

Just as Amelia opened her mouth to speak, Gene threw the pencil sharpener at her head, managing to hit her square on the forehead.

"I say -eeee!"

Her yelp covered the dull thud as the pencil sharpener fell on Alex's shoe.

"Me?" Mrs Pankhurst looked most surprised, staring at Amelia; Alex whipped round, staring at Gene, who smiled beatifically back at her, glancing down at the sharpener and back up again before quirking a wink at her as Mrs Pankhurst praised Amelia for being nice enough to allow the other children to stay in the game.

Eyes now hazed with tears of relief, Alex slid back down next to Gene as Amelia stomped off to the corner with Ray, her face contorted in anger. Out of sight of Mrs Pankhurst, who had turned away to head back to her space, she slipped the pencil sharpener back to Gene, who silently dropped it back in Ray's empty place.

As Mrs Pankhurst called the number threes up and the scrabble began, Alex tucked her hand into Gene's and squeezed gently, smiling round at him through her long dusky hair.

* * *

><p>Alex was eventually knocked out in the third round, accepting defeat to a victorious Jennifer Milton; Gene, despite being the youngest in his group, couldn't help winning just to show William Jamieson up, even though in the final round the struggle was so vicious he ended up being sat on by the older (and much heavier) boy. His prize, a paper bag of Black Jacks, was hurriedly snaffled up there and then, half of them donated to Alex to get rid of them quicker; the inquisitive side of Alex's mind that would later lead her into psychology tried to analyse him, a frown on her small face as she chewed a sweet contemplatively, but just then she was distracted by the sheet of A3 paper put in front of her and Gene.<p>

"What are we doing?" she asked, glancing at Gene; he was shredding the empty Black Jack packet, his bottom lip stuck out in a strangely cute pout.

"Whatever we want, apparently," he muttered, dropping the bits of wrapper on the floor. Mrs Pankhurst tapped his shoulder, pointing to the plastic littering the carpet beneath him.

"If you'd pick those up please, Eugene."

Gene considered cheeking her, giving her some rude comeback that would have her kicking him straight out, but the sheet of A3 paper and its endless possibilities to mess around with persuaded him to stay and he reluctantly bent down, scraping the wrappers up and dropping them into the bin Mrs Pankhurst held out to him.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she smiled, hurriedly moving on to diffuse a fight between Ray Carling and his partner. Gene opened his mouth to complain at being called 'sweetheart', but she was gone before he could start whinging and Alex was looking at him expectantly, her hand on his arm.

"What are we doing then, Gene?"

Gene looked down at the paper, running his finger over it contemplatively; Alex picked up her pen, uncapping it as Gene leaned back in his chair, pout still on his face.

"Could be part of our project. Take yer shoe off."

"Sorry?"

"Yer shoe. It's white paper, we've got red paint. Do a shoeprint."

"Oh right! But my shoe'll get covered in red paint."

"We can wipe it off."

Alex seemed to accept this, slipping her shoe off and handing it to Gene; Mrs Pankhurst, guessing what they were about to do, hurriedly ushered them outside, returning inside too quickly to see Amelia Forester and her partner, a horse-faced Mancunian boy named Alan whom Gene had never seen eye-to-eye with, busily hiding Christopher Skelton's rucksack behind a patch of scrubby bushes.

"You think yer so clever," Gene sneered, leaving Alex behind him holding her shoe and stepping towards Amelia, hands on hips; even at eight years old, he was an impressive sight, face dark with determination, eyes gleaming slits. "Give us the rucksack."

Alan sniggered to himself, nudging Amelia.

"Eugene Hunt stickin' up fer that sad baby! Yer as bad as 'im. No guts."

"An' you get off makin' fun of a kid. Pretty sad that yer nine an' can't think of anythin' better ter do than hidin' his bag ter make 'im cry. An' Forester's just as bad."

"You shut your stupid mouth," Amelia snarled, stepping towards him. Gene squared his shoulders, balling both hands into fists; behind him, Alex stepped forwards, her face an almost cute blend of nervousness and hurriedly-summoned courage.

"Me, stupid? Should look in a mirror someday. Actually, don't, it'd break."

Amelia's eyes flashed with outrage.

Before anyone could say anything, she'd darted forwards and snatched the shoe from Alex's hand, holding it high above her head as Alex squealed, yelling for Amelia to give it back or she'd tell.

"Aww," Amelia mocked, waving the shoe from side to side in the air, high above Alex's reach. Alex gritted her teeth, glaring with daggers in her watery eyes, desperately hoping that Gene would be able to snatch her shoe back-

A drop of red paint splashed onto Amelia's face, running slowly down onto her cheek in the sudden silence following its appearance.

"What? Eeee!"

The sole of Alex's shoe, coated in red paint, glistened as Amelia dropped it like a hot potato, staring at her paint-covered hand in astonished outrage as Gene smirked and Alex giggled, darting forwards to pick her shoe up.

"Sorry, Amelia. Didn't we warn yer it was covered in paint?" Gene asked insincerely, stepping back towards Alex. "Can't say it doesn't suit yer, though. Now yer 'and's mucky, just like the rest of yer. Now piss off an' leave us in peace."

Picking up the paper, Gene shepherded Alex onto the grass, sparing only one more scathing look back at Amelia and Alan as he crouched to help Alex with making the shoeprint. Amelia hurriedly wiped her hand on Alan's jumper.

"Oi!"

* * *

><p>Dinner at the hotel that night was a little more satisfactory, pork sausages and chips with vegetables and baked beans and trifle to finish; by the time Gene had finished his second portion and most of Christopher's, the younger boy having copied him and got a second portion only to find himself incapable of eating it, he was too full to even consider nicking any food from the kitchens, heading back to their room with Brian and Christopher, groaning and clutching his full belly. The landlady winked at him as he unlocked the door, smiling broadly at Christopher, who grinned dopily back; Gene rolled his eyes, ushering his roommates inside, anticipating his bed and possibly snatching Christopher's comics.<p>

Twenty minutes later and Brian began claiming he was bored, shuffling his Top Trumps cards moodily as Gene tried and failed to concentrate on the _Beano _Christopher had let him read and the younger boy played idly with the empty tray of roast potatoes, trying to balance it on his head and ending up almost braining himself when his hand slipped and he dropped it.

"Shut up, Christopher!" Brian moaned as Christopher started whimpering, dumping his Top Trumps on the table and snatching the tray from Christopher; the younger boy, now deprived of his toy as well as being in pain, wailed even harder, trying to snatch the tray back and missing by a country mile.

"Geeeene! Make him give it baaaack!"

"Play with somethin' else," Gene answered tiredly, turning the page of the _Beano_. Christopher sobbed desolately, sitting down on the floor in the middle of the room, staring round it for something to do and coming up with a big fat nothing.

"Geeeeeeeeeeene!"

"Don't keep sayin' my name like that!"

"This'd be a great toboggan," Brian said idly, turning the tray over in his hands and feeling the slippery bottom. "It would be! Look, the bottom's all slidy an' everythin'. We could go an' toboggan in the corridors, if everyone else is asleep."

The idea certainly had merit. Christopher stopped whinging, instantly looking cheerful; Gene sat up, scrutinising the tray, dumping the _Beano _beside his pillow as his eyebrows drew in in thought. Christopher stared at him hopefully.

"Yeah, could be fun. Anyone got any string?"

Brian's trainers provided shoelaces for pulling the tray, and the corridor outside provided a runway for the toboggan; the three sneaked out, heading up the corridor to find a slope, and ran straight into Ray Carling, heading back to his room from going to the toilet.

"What you doin'?"

"Nothin'," Gene said defensively, glaring at Ray. Ray's eyes found the tray and shoelaces, putting two and two together as only a true troublemaker can, his eyes lighting up as Brian began tying the shoelaces to the tray.

"Yer doin' a toboggan? Can I 'ave a go?"

"Fine. But I go first!"

"My shoelaces," Brian protested, standing up with his hands on his hips. Gene rolled his eyes.

"I nicked the tray. I go first."

His dangerously narrowed eyes dissuaded Brian from whinging any further; within a couple of minutes, Gene was seated on the tray, Ray and Christopher pulling, Brian standing at the beginning of the incline down to the main reception ready to tell Ray and Christopher to let go and step out of the way. Christopher was leaping up and down on the spot with all the enthusiasm of a puppy, Ray grasping the shoelaces hard as Brian first checked nobody was in the reception area and then held his hand up, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Ready- set- go!"

It was a juddery start, Gene almost knocked backwards off the tray by Christopher trying to pull the wrong way; once Ray had sworn at him a couple of times and yanked him in the right direction, however, the tray soon picked up speed, Gene clinging on with white knuckles as Ray and Chris ran on ahead, approaching Brian with surprising speed as the shout of "let go!" rang through the hallway.

Ray dropped the string and ran like hell, diving out of the way, but Christopher, panicking, only clung tighter, running down the slope in front of the tray; Gene yelled, trying to push Christopher out of the way, but only succeeded in knocking Christopher off his feet and into Gene's lap as the tray gathered speed, fast approaching the wall-

BANG.

Dazed, Gene scrambled free of the wreckage, holding a hand up to Ray and using him to haul himself upright; Christopher still lay in front of the tray, rubbing his head miserably, staring up at the other three boys as Brian ran down to look at the damage. The now dented tray lay in front of the wall, showered liberally in plaster dust, whilst the wall now sported a surprisingly large hole, cracks running up the plaster above it, the framework exposed to the four boys now standing somewhat sheepishly in front of it.

"Bugger," Gene muttered, scratching his neck awkwardly. _That wasn't part o' the plan._

"We should get back ter bed," Brian hissed, grabbing Gene's elbow and pulling him away; Ray hauled Christopher up, all but dragging the younger boy behind him as he followed Gene and Brian up the ramp, ignoring Christopher's whining that his head hurt.

"And what exactly do you think yer doin'?"

Ray, glancing back at the wall, was too late to stop running, banging straight into the backs of Gene and Brian, who in turn pitched forwards, Brian falling over at the feet of a very irritated teacher.

Gene, mentally preparing himself, slowly lifted his head, bright blue eyes trailing up the teacher's body to finally meet her gaze, steely above lips pressed so hard together they were bone-white.

The teacher looked over the heads of the four boys in front of her, surveying the damage to the entrance hall silently. Gene considered doing a runner for it, shuffling his feet, but just as he did the teacher's hand landed on his shoulder and he silently resigned himself to a massive bollocking.

"I think you'd best come with me, Master Hunt. And you, Davis. And you, Carling, Skelton."

Christopher gulped.

* * *

><p>AN: Oopsy daisy… well, there you go, that's what they did with the tray. ;)

Now, a short advertisement from Jazzola, founding member of Save the Fanfics:

*sad music*

Millions of fanfics each year die as a result of receiving too few reviews. Authors find themselves in review famine, plot bunnies and muses starving as their stories become neglected and receive no updates. Readers, in turn, lose their favourite fanfics and writers, the vicious circle continuing.

But there is a way to help.

Just one review per reader can save a fanfic from starvation. A total of ten reviews may encourage a writer to update, even when they have exams to contend with as well. All it takes is clicking the button and writing a small review- hardly any effort at all. So please. Do your bit today to save a fanfic from starvation. Start with reviewing this fanfic, and then, should you read another, review that too. It is a simple and kindly way to save fanfics from neglect and eventual death.

Thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't send the lot of you back to Manchester."

Mrs Baker glared at the four boys stood in a line in front of her, all dressed in pyjamas, Gene with a bruise forming on his elbow and Christopher with a red patch over the right side of his forehead, all looking suitably contrite. She wasn't quite sure whether the three older boys really were sorry yet- she'd long since learnt that children of their ilk didn't really do good behaviour- but none of them had talked back yet, instead remaining staring at the floor, heads bowed in what she hoped was a genuine sign of apology.

The landlady of the house was assessing the damage, having heard the bang from her bedroom; no doubt it would be pretty expensive, and a great inconvenience for the lady of the house. Mrs Baker was angry, as the teacher in charge of the children who had caused the damage. They _were _just children, irresponsible and to an extent unable to predict the outcomes of their actions, but tray tobogganing- especially when they were meant to be asleep- and causing that amount of damage wasn't about to be taken lightly.

"Well? Come on. One reason between the four of you, shouldn't be too 'ard."

Gene sniffed. Ray scuffed the carpet with his toes.

"Somebody? Anybody?"

Nothing. Mrs Baker sighed, leaning back against the wall, tapping it with her long nails.

"Well, all four of you'll be gettin' the cane, that's for sure. Just a matter of if that's 'ere or in Manchester now."

She thought she saw Gene wince, but if he did, the expression was gone so quickly that she couldn't be sure it had been there at all. She'd long since learnt that Gene was a hard child to understand.

"One reason."

She wasn't expecting anyone to speak up, was beginning to wonder why she was asking it; it startled her when a small voice spoke from the end of the row, its owner staring up at her with tears in his big, doleful eyes.

"We were just playin', Miss. We're sorry fer damagin' the wall," Christopher said meekly, picking nervously at his nails, one tooth worrying at his lip. "We're sorry. We were just playin'."

Gene stiffened, but Mrs Baker chose to ignore it.

"Just playin'. Well, not only 'ave you damaged that wall quite badly, but you could've damaged yourselves as well. Think about it- if one of you 'ad 'it the wall with their 'ead, they could've knocked themselves out, or worse. Much worse. People 'ave died doin' stupid things like you did."

Ray shuffled, his face droopy for the lack of its usual smirk; Brian was studying the flowery pattern on the carpet as though it held the answers to the universe, his cheeks red.

"So. You 'ave no good reason for doin' what you did, you've caused a lot of damage to the wall, Gene and Christopher are 'urt, and woken me up in the dead of night to deal with you, not to mention the landlady. Whose idea was it, please?"

Utter silence.

The Question had been asked.

Mrs Baker was fully aware of the psychology of this question; the sidelong glances, the embarrassed shifting from foot to foot, the mutters of "it was him, Miss, honest, it was him!" and then the indignant remonstrations from the supposedly guilty party. The answer could almost always be found in the body movements, in the quick looks. The best actors learned to disguise this, or peer round at someone to try and mask their own guilt, but in the split second when the question was asked, someone would reveal it. Without a shadow of a doubt.

Only nobody moved this time.

"Whose idea was it? Come on. Someone must 'ave come up with it."

Gene Hunt seemed the most likely candidate, troublemaker as he was; she opened her mouth to ask him, eyes trained on the bowed blond head in front of her, only to be cut off by the small voice to her right, a mumble she would have doubted even existed had she not heard it with her own ears.

"It was me, Miss."

"Christopher?"

The boy himself was beetroot-red, eyes watery and bottom lip quavering, but when he met his teacher's gaze his own was unwavering. Mrs Baker raised her eyebrows.

"Really?"

"Yes, Miss. Sorry."

The last word was no more than a whisper, so quiet that she barely caught it, despite the total silence of the hotel. Brian and Ray looked down at their feet; Gene clenched his fingers, wrapping his arms round his stomach like a shield.

She had no doubt that Christopher was lying. But she also had no doubt that there was a reason.

And sometimes you just had to let that work itself out.

She studied Christopher's little face, now glazed with tears, and sighed, standing up straight.

"Well, I think you've all been very silly, and we'll see about the wall in the mornin'. You'll each 'ave five strokes of the cane. Go an' get into bed an' get some sleep."

The boys nodded as one, all but Gene looking up as she opened the door and beckoned for them to head back to their rooms, holding it open for them as they filed out into the corridor. Christopher attempted a mumbled "goodnight Miss", shuffling nervously out after Brian and casting fertive glances at Gene, as though waiting for the older boy to tell him what to do next.

As Gene passed her, she glimpsed a strip of red on the back of his T-shirt, and a thick, dark patch of bruising where his shirt didn't quite reach his trousers.

She was certain he hadn't been bleeding after he'd gone into the wall. And he hadn't hit his back.

* * *

><p>"How's your 'and, Hunt?"<p>

"Piss off," Gene mumbled, resting his head against the window of the coach and curling his hands into each other in his lap. His caning earlier had left his right hand sore and red, and the cut the impact of hitting the wall had re-opened on his back stung under his shirt; he could only hope it wasn't bleeding now, pressing himself into the cushions and focusing on the city flashing by outside. _Just my luck Jamieson an' Carter saw us being caned._

No doubt they'd be taking every opportunity to tease him about it, probably trying to grab his hand or bend it back to aggravate them. And Alex would start nosing into it as well.

He wasn't ashamed of it. It had been an accident and he'd only gone along with the whole plan in the first place because Brian seemed to think it was a good idea and Christopher had been whinging. But it would shock Alex, and loathe as he was to admit it, he didn't really want her to start thinking he was _that _badly-behaved, like all the teachers back in Manchester. He didn't want to single-handedly prove the stereotype to her, the Northern flatfoot whose education would be completely wasted on them. Even though he didn't like studying, Gene still used it, because if he could get an education, he would be able to get a good job, and have a good life, and that would make him better than his father. And Gene was determined to turn out better than this father.

"Hey, Hunt, high five!" John Carter laughed, waving his hand around to shouts of laughter from the back of the coach; Gene cast him a single heated glare, folding his arms over his chest and resolutely staring out of the window. Mrs Baker, watching him from behind the driver, smiled. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

"What's Daddy goin' ter say when little Eugene comes 'ome with bright red 'ands, eh? Maybe 'e'll give yer a couple 'imself, just ter-"

Gene never found out what his father would be caning him to do, because just then Christopher whipped round in his seat and punched William straight in the stomach.

"Oof!"

The coach exploded with laughter, Brian and Gene easily the loudest as William gasped for air, winded; Mrs Baker glanced back in the rearview mirror, smiling to herself as she pretended to be too immersed in the shops going by outside to notice a red-faced but beaming Christopher being quietly congratulated by Gene, Brian and Ray.

"Lively bunch you've got 'ere," the coach driver commented quietly, flipping the indicator on. Mrs Baker rolled her eyes.

"Don't I know it…"

* * *

><p>The morning was uneventful, apart from Gene tripping Amelia Forester up accidentally on purpose and nearly sending her flying onto the wet canvas Micky and Christopher were using to draw the Underground out; the rain kept Gene and Alex inside, pattering down miserably on the windowpanes as Gene lounged idly on two chairs and Alex attempted to entertain herself by playing several rounds of noughts and crosses with herself and inevitably failed. By the time the rain finally eased up and the bell rang for break, the pair were bored witless, slouching out into the crisp air and over to the monkey bars, Gene taking advantage of the height to stick his tongue out at William Jamieson and mime being winded in safety.<p>

"What are you doing?" Alex asked curiously as she held her hands up for a lift, her well-bred accent sounding even posher for the childish curiosity. Gene looked down at her from his perch, hauling her up onto the bars next to him and hurriedly hiding the wince that came with the movement.

"Christopher punched 'im. Winded 'im."

"Really?"

Alex looked scandalised, her eyes wide with shock; Gene smirked, patting her shoulder.

"Yup. Proper punch. Winded 'im. I've got an idea, let's go out of the school fer the next one, do a proper crime scene."

Mainly he wanted to get away from William and John, and preferably Mrs Baker as well. But Alex didn't need to know that.

"We could find an alleyway or somethin', make out someone got murdered there. Loads of people get murdered in alleyways, don't they?"

"Do they?"

"Yeah. Loads and loads of people." Gene's eyes began to glitter as he sniffed an opportunity to wind Alex up. "There was this man up in Manchester, 'e came out o' the pub an' went inter an alleyway, an' someone stabbed 'im in the eye with a massive knife, so 'is eye burst an' splattered everywhere, an' then all 'is brains started leakin' out an' went all over 'is face an' in 'is mouth an' 'e started chokin' on 'em-"

"Eurgh, no, Gene, stop it!"

Alex covered her ears, her face screwed up in revulsion; Gene sniggered, grabbing the bar behind him only to be painfully reminded of his caned hands.

"Fuck," he hissed, somewhat glad Alex's hands were still over her ears as he cradled his sore fingers, clenching and unclenching them to make sure they still worked. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mrs Baker glancing at him, a strange mixture of sadness and sympathy on her face; grinding his teeth together, he deliberately turned his back on her, pulling Alex down from the play frame as the bell sounded for class.

"Go an' ask Mrs Pankhurst, I bet she'll say yes. Little teacher's pet."

Alex meekly pretended to punch his shoulder, clasping her hands in front of her skirt as she ran towards her teacher, ignoring Amelia Forester accidentally on purpose stepping on her foot as she was shepherded inside.

"Mrs Pankhurst? Could Gene and I…"

* * *

><p><em>"How long will it take?"<em>

_ "Five minutes to clean the place out. Easy as pie. Why, Rod, you scared?"_

_ "Course I'm not fucking scared! Just… doesn't take long for the rozzers to find you, does it?"_

_ "Grow up, Rod. We won't give them the chance to call the fuzz. Just in and out, take the stuff and run. I've done this so many times before, I could do it in my fucking sleep. Just keep your face covered, and watch my back. When we're done, we go out through the back, there's an alleyway there that we can use. Understood?"_

_ "Yeah, Steve. I understand."_

_ "Good. Now get in the van and stop snivelling. This'll pay for that holiday in Majorca the missus wanted, won't it?"_

_ "And more…"_

_ "That's the attitude. Now get out there and let's do this jeweller's over."_

* * *

><p>After a little exploring around Fenchurch, with Mrs Baker in tow and Gene's expression getting steadily grumpier by the second, the small group finally managed to stumble over an alleyway nicely secluded from the main road to set up their 'crime scene' in; Gene placed the fake gun borrowed from the drama department carefully beside the 'body' as Alex outlined a person lying sprawled on the ground in white tape, eyebrows knitted in concentration as Mrs Baker watched, intervening once to remind Alex that the corpse needed feet. By the time the sun had came out and it was bright enough to take the photo, Gene had become bored, scraping a handful of pebbles from the pockmarked tarmac and using them to annoy the cashier in the jeweller's the alleyway ran behind. Mrs Baker, busy unsticking the roll of tape from Alex's elbow, failed to notice her other charge sniggering to himself as the cashier swerved round once again, glaring out of the window to try and find where the annoying tapping was coming from, too low down to see the little boy crouched under the window, scrabbling around behind a patch of weeds for more stones.<p>

"Gene, come over 'ere, you can take the photo," Mrs Baker called just as he was about to throw another stone, stopping him in mid-throw; grumpily throwing the whole handful of stones at the window, Gene pushed himself to his feet, brushing his hands down on his trousers and quickly hiding his wince as Mrs Baker beckoned him over, her attempt at a smile vanishing at the stormy look on his face.

"Is your 'and hurtin'?"

"No," Gene muttered, eyes fixed on the camera; Mrs Baker sighed to herself, slipping it over her head and making to put it over his neck, stepping back slightly as Gene snatched it from her and turned his back on her, bright blue eyes giving her a flash of injured anger before they focused back on the 'crime scene' and Alex. _What is it with 'im? The others aren't behavin' like this…_

Just as Gene's finger lowered over the button, a shout from the jeweller's made everyone jump.

"Hands in the air! This is a robbery!"

"Gene!" Alex squealed, dashing forwards to cling to him; Gene stared round at the window he'd been crouched under, just catching a glimpse of balaclavas and the glint of a gun before Mrs Baker grabbed his arm and pulled him back behind a bush with her.

"Ow! Gerroff!"

"Gene, sweetie, stay still an' quiet, don't move," Mrs Baker whispered, tightening her grip on him, one arm round his chest and the other clutching Alex's hand as the crash of glass splintering came from the jeweller's, accompanied by a scream.

"Someone needs ter call the police," Gene hissed, struggling against Mrs Baker's arm; his teacher tightened her grip on him, shaking her head quickly, her hair whipping into a whimpering Alex's face.

"Don't you dare. You stay right 'ere, someone else will call the police. Gene Hunt, you stop that right now! They'll 'urt you if they see you."

She pulled him closer, pressing his skinny body into hers; Gene clenched his fists, still writhing to try and free himself of Mrs Baker's grasp, but a small, cold hand on his and a tearful, frightened whisper of "don't, Gene, please, stay here!" stopped him and he let Alex hold onto his hand, pressing himself against his teacher and squeezing the trembling little fingers in his. Gene Hunt liked to go where he was needed, just like with Christopher in the hotel, and a tiny voice in his head firmly told him that right now he was needed at Alex's side, that the adults would take care of everything else. So he reluctantly let his teacher hold him, one hand still in Alex's, and crouched as far down as possible as the sound of voices grew louder and the handle of the back door of the jeweller's turned.

"Right, let's go!"

And then someone was running out into the alleyway, swinging a sack filled with jewellery and money round as they swerved to yank someone else out behind them, both of them yanking their balaclavas off with one hand.

The sack smacked Mrs Baker on the head.

With a scream, she dropped back against the wall, spark out.

"AHHH!" Alex screamed, clinging to Gene, her heart thudding so hard in her mouth she thought she would be sick then and there; Gene swerved to face the two men now staring straight at them, pushing Alex behind himself, some primal instinct telling him to keep her safe as the two men stared at him in evident shock, both holding guns aloft.

"Shit," one of the robbers muttered. "What do we do now?"

"Only thing we can do. Hold the sack," the other replied, and passing the sack of jewellery to his friend, he reached out and pinned Gene's arms to his sides, his tight grip bruising Gene's skin as he pushed his face aggressively into the little boy's, ignoring Alex starting to cry.

"You saw nothing. Understood? You say a thing to the police, and we'll come looking for you, and set fire to your house in the middle of the night."

Gene spat in his face.

"Little bastard!"

Before Alex could do anything more than whimper, the man had smacked Gene across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, his yelp echoing round the alleyway.

"Gene!"

"Bring the bitch too. We'll have to take the both of them," the man snarled, hauling a struggling Gene up onto his shoulder; the other man grabbed Alex and hoisted her up, clinging tightly as she started to thrash against him, screaming "Gene! GENE!" at the top of her voice.

"Shut up!"

And before she really registered what was happening she was being hurled into the back of a van, Gene dropped carelessly beside her, the van roaring and rattling beneath her as someone held her down and someone else tied her wrists and ankles, gagging her as she started to shriek again. Gene began yelling, screaming loudly enough to wake the dead in a vain hope that someone might hear, someone might help, but no-one came to save them and he was left to struggle uselessly as the superior strength of their captors won out and he was quickly restrained, blood trickling down his face and chin from cuts on his temple and lip.

Alex rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed through the gag, her bound hands travelling over to hold Gene's as best they could and Gene's cold fingers grasping hers back as the van grumbled on, the cold, hawk-like eyes of the two robbers watching steadily.

* * *

><p>"My dear woman, are you alright? Can you hear me?"<p>

"Does she need some water?"

"Can you hear me, madam?"

"Urghh…"

Mrs Baker's eyes slowly slid open, hazy eyesight gradually clearing; she could just about make out a blur of white hair, a thick red cut above what seemed to be an eye. Someone handed her a glass of water, their hand on her shoulder as she eased herself up and glugged the water down, her battered brain fighting to regain its memories.

Gene… and a girl… making the crime scene, Alex missing out the feet… poor little Gene, his red hand and the hurt in his eyes, the flicker of guilt she'd felt for caning him… and then the screaming…

Gene and Alex!

"Oh my God! The two- there were two children with me, a little boy and a girl- are they-"

The white-haired man she could now make out in front of her frowned, supporting her up as she looked round wildly, heart pounding; the tape was still on the floor, some parts scrunched up and dirtied, and the fake gun had been kicked into the dust of the scrubby weeds.

But no children in sight.

"GENE! ALEX!" she screamed at the top of her voice, determinedly not letting her voice break; but no reply came, no small voices or childish sobs.

Something on the floor caught her eye, and she almost choked on a strangled gasp, pitching forwards.

A small pool of blood. And a child's handprint, just the size that Gene's hand had been as she'd caned it this morning, his long, delicate fingers jerking up with each blow.

In that moment, she knew they were gone.

* * *

><p>AN: This is quite a major detour from my original plot, which I suspect was a bit less dramatic to say the least. So I need you awesome people to review and tell me if you like it! Please, you can spare a review for a friend, can't you? I am literally begging you here.

I would love some reviews because I have had the week from hell. A friend has had a serious accident, I've had more migraines than I thought was possible, my family have been pretty indifferent apart from my brother taking every opportunity possible to wind me up about the amount of revision I have to do and my college work seems to centre around _The Kite Runner_, eg. child rape, war and murder. So please, knowing that people are still reading this and that my efforts are still being appreciated would be a real tonic. Save The Fanfics asks you once again to step up to the mark, as you have done so wonderfully in the past or will do so brilliantly now, and just donate a little review. Because if I don't get some love, I may just go and crawl into a hole and try to forget the world ever existed. Jazzola


	6. Chapter 6

"Gene, are we going to be murdered?"

Gene had always had fantasies about being a hero. The Wild West films he snuck into cinemas to watch thrilled him, the powerful sheriff heroically saving the damsel in distress from the hordes of enemies; he'd be in a daze for hours afterwards, imagination running wild as he pictured himself galloping in on a handsome chestnut stallion and sweeping whichever beautiful bird had dominated the big screen this time into his arms, thundering away into the sunset to live happily ever after. One day, he was always certain, he'd get the chance to save someone like that, and he'd be hailed as the hero, showered with praise and rewards and placed on a pedastal before the people of the world, cheered through the streets, because in his eight-year-old mind being a hero really was as simple as the cinema made it out to be.

But here, stuck in a small cellar, his head aching and Alex's whimpers the only thing to break the suffocating silence, he realised that being a hero was harder than he'd assumed it to be. And, although he would never admit it to a living soul, he was terrified.

He no longer wanted to be a hero. He just wanted to be cuddled up in his mother's arms, safe in their dark little living room, with Stu playing noisily on the floor in front of them and the television flickering in the corner. But he had to reassure Alex.

"No. We're not goin' ter be murdered."

He had no clue whether they would be or not. The cold concrete floor under his body was making him shiver, the darkness stifling, only the occasional thump overhead to tell where their captors were. Gene shuddered, clamping his arms round his stomach, gritting his teeth to try and ignore the ache in his temple where it had struck the ground.

"Someone'll come an' find us. You'll see. Or we'll find a way out."

_ Stay 'opeful, Gene. Don't lose faith._

His mother always told him not to lose faith, that everything would turn out alright in the end. Clenching his fists, Gene murmured it under his breath, refusing to let his voice break or quaver, convincing himself of it as he began feeling his way round the cell, small fingers combing the walls and floor and eventually finding Alex, who immediately latched onto him, tears streaming down her face and glinting in the dim light from the one small window.

"Gene, I'm scared…"

"I know. I know."

The tremble in her voice made his heart ache, but he couldn't afford to let emotion get in the way of being rescued.

"Alex- Alex. Feel round. There might be some way out o' 'ere, an' we might be able ter find it an' escape before they come back. Come on- gerroff my leg! I'm not goin' anywhere."

Rolling his eyes in the gloom, Gene gently disentangled Alex from his legs, scooting away before she could grab at him again; Alex wailed with the loss, clamping her hand over her mouth as someone yelled overhead and footsteps stomped down towards the cellar.

"Alex!" he hissed, anger overtaking fright for a second; Alex swiped at him, glaring even as the tears slid down her cheeks.

"I couldn't feel where you were!"

"It's not like I'm bloody goin' anywhere, is it?" he hissed as the footsteps grew louder, a light snapping on somewhere beyond the doorway. "Yer couldn't stay bloody quiet!"

"Gene, stop it!"

He swerved to yell at her, fury roiling in his stomach, but the moment his eyes found hers and the utter despair and terror in them the anger dissolved. He slowly reached out to grasp her by the wrist, choosing not to protest when she slid her hand up to rest in his.

"We'll try an' run," he whispered, pulling her closer and feeling his way to the door; Alex nodded, clutching his arm, pressing her lips hard together to stop herself making a sound as the clumping stopped outside the door and Gene readied himself, jaw clenched in determination.

The handle squeaked.

A thin beam of light slid into the room.

"Where are you? You better not be hiding. I won't be nice if you've been hiding."

The door opened fully, the figure of the man stood in silhouette in the over-bright doorway, arms crossed sternly.

Gene ran for it, his hand tugging hard on Alex's to make her move as her body froze with fear, only for him to be grabbed by the collar and hoisted up, choking and gasping as the man held him up to his face and smacked him with a hefty paw, throwing him away to the other side of the cellar.

"Little bastard!"

Gene, dazed, lay still, eyes closed; Alex whimpered with fright, rooted to the spot by terror. The man glanced round at her, a wolfish smile on his face, half in shadow from the dim light of the doorway.

"You want a go, girlie?"

Alex hastily shook her head, biting her lip as Gene slowly raised his head, massaging his neck. Someone else slid into the doorway as the man hulked forwards, seizing Gene's arm in a vice-like grip and shoving his face in the boy's, eyes hard and angry.

"You better have a bloody good reason for that little stunt, sonny."

"Let us bloody go, we didn't do anythin' ter you," Gene hissed, his voice raw with anger and strangulation. Alex nodded wordlessly, the tear tracks on her cheeks glinting.

"Let you go so you can tell the police exactly who we are? No chance, sonny. We need to make sure you won't say anything. And there are plenty of ways in which we could ensure that."

Alex gasped, clamping her hand over her mouth a second too late. Gene's eyes flicked towards her, one hand still massaging his neck, small fingers not quite managing to cover the bruise developing there.

"We didn't do anythin' ter you. The police'll be lookin' fer yer. Yer won't get away with this, you'll see!"

Gene's voice held a bravery he didn't quite feel as he struggled, yanking his sore arm away from the man and scrabbling backwards into the corner of the room, his eyes darting between the three people in front of him. The man in the doorway chuckled darkly.

"I wouldn't bet on being rescued, sonny. The cops round here are useless, we should know, we've been doing this for years…"

Alex swallowed back a fresh round of sobs, curling her arms round herself miserably; Gene gritted his jaw, scrambling to his feet and finding himself pressed against the wall, something jabbing into his back. His eyes flicked to Alex in desperation.

_What was it he said? I'll watch your back, and you watch mine…_

"He's right- they'll come and find us, and my mummy will send you to prison for a long, long time!"

Alex had no idea where she found the bravery to say it, but say it she did, tearful eyes glinting with hatred in the dim light; the two men roared with laughter, wiping tears from their eyes, but Gene remained quiet, instead catching her eye and sending her a grateful smile.

"My mummy will send you to prison for a long, long time!" the man standing in the doorway mimicked in a high-pitched voice, bent over with mirth; Alex stuck her chin in the air defiantly, keeping it there even as tears trickled off it and onto her shirt.

"What about your mummy, sonny? Will she send us to prison too?" the other man mocked, drawing himself back up and moving closer to Gene, penning him into the corner. "She won't ever get the chance, see, because she'll be too busy burying what's left of you, if you were ever to squeal."

Gene, his skinny body pressed against the wall, gritted his teeth, defiance shining in his eyes as he stared the man down, hands curling into fists as he stepped forwards, hands either side of Gene's chest, mouth curved into a cruel grin as he trapped the boy…

One fist swung upwards.

"OHHHHOOOOWWW!"

Alex watched in astonishment as the man dropped like a stone, both hands clutching his groin, revealing a very smug Gene brushing his hands off in front of him, looking down his nose at the man in a supercilious way that Alex could imagine him using very often.

"Christ on a bike…"

"Bloody 'ell, brought down by an eight-year-old," Gene mocked, swinging his fist in the air. "Even a ruddy spastic would stand a better chance than you against the police."

He wasn't laughing ten seconds later, when the light was flipped on and he found the barrel of a gun an inch from his left eye.

* * *

><p><em> Two children are believed to have been abducted during a jewellery shop robbery near London's Fenchurch area. Alex Price is six years old, with long brown hair and a crescent-shaped birthmark on her right middle finger, and Gene Hunt is eight years old with blond hair and a noticeable scar above his left eyebrow. The robbers were believed to be two men in their early forties or late thirties, both with South London accents. They were seen driving away in a white Ford Econoline towards Charing Cross. Anyone with any information as to their whereabouts or the identity of their abductors is urged to contact the Metropolitan Police immediately.<em>

Mrs Baker wiped her eyes with the corner of her cardigan sleeve, ignoring the mascara seeping into the pale blue fabric, perched shakily in Mrs Hingston's leather swivel chair as the woman herself consulted quietly with police outside and several children stood around listening, some excited, others sombre. One of the girls was sniffling, her bottom lip wobbling as she listened silently to the police officers; Amelia Forester stood facing the police car parked outside, a strange expression on her face as though she couldn't decide what to think about Gene and Alex's disappearance.

_ Gene and Alex._

Oh God, what she wouldn't give now to be holding Gene in her arms, his skinny body wriggling to be free as she scolded him gently or whispered encouragement in his ear; or little Alex, with her long dusky hair and beguiling hazel-flecked eyes, the way her front tooth worried at her bottom lip and the way she looked at Gene as though he were some kind of hero, her very own knight in shining armour.

_I was holdin' him- I was so close I could feel him breathin'… I 'ad her little fingers in mine… I failed them._

Maybe they were together. Maybe he was comforting her, because she knew a boy like Gene Hunt would never admit that he wanted comfort or even so much as a cuddle, would never let anyone see the cracks in his iron-clad armour. Maybe they had come up with a plan together, some way to escape from wherever they were being held.

Maybe they were dead, murdered for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, their young blood soaking into the concrete of some God-forsaken alleyway, bodies dumped like rubbish. _God, no. Please no. _She clamped her hand over her mouth to stuff the sobs back in.

They had to be alive. She couldn't think, let herself believe, that anything else was possible.

* * *

><p>Stu Hunt had never met anyone from the police before. Well, he'd been on the receiving end of the odd "oi!" and one had visited his school once dressed as the squirrel in the Public Information films Mammy made him watch- Tufty, they called it- but he'd never before had a police officer in his house. The closest dealings they'd had with the police had been two Christmases ago, when their father had broken Gene's arm and they'd had to make up a story about playing a game and falling down the stairs.<p>

These ones weren't like them, sitting round Gene's hospital bed and asking them both questions, scribbling on notepads and watching with narrowed eyes as Gene fiddled with his plaster cast and tried to sneak one of their radios when they weren't looking. These ones didn't ask questions. Mammy asked the questions, in a tearful, trembling voice, and they either answered or glanced at each other and tried to change the subject.

There was one in the kitchen serving tea; everyone called her Annie. She seemed nice, big hazel eyes and a soft, placid face, giving him his cup filled with orange squash before she made the adults' tea because he'd asked her nicely, just like Mammy told him to. There had been a strange expression on her face, a mixture of sympathy and sorrow, and Stu hadn't thought much of it then, but he was beginning to wonder why they weren't talking to him too. They'd told him to go and play in the garden when they'd arrived, so he hadn't heard what they'd said to Mammy to make her cry.

Annie was coming over to him, her brown skirt swishing round her calves as she sat down next to him on Gene's tyre swing. Stu wanted to tell her not to, but Mammy had told him that he and Gene did have to share their tyre swings whenever someone came round and so he let her, watching from under his fringe as she swung back and forth a little, smiling softly at him.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. What's everyone talking to Mammy about?"

For a second, he thought Annie wouldn't answer him, would tell him to go and play like the others; but when he looked into her face, his curious eyes scrutinising him, she met his eyes, fingers twiddling with a loose thread on the swing as she sighed.

"Your brother. Gene. You know 'e went down ter London?"

Stu did know. He'd been jealous, trying to cadge a place on the trip as well, but his teacher had told him he was too young to go. It hadn't been the case for sissy little Christopher Skelton, not quite five and a half, but it hadn't been up for debate and Stu had had to give up, simply making Gene promise to bring back something for him. He wondered if Gene had been sent back to Manchester, and that's why everyone was here, and Mammy was crying. But if so, was Gene up in his room, or where?

"Yeah."

"Well… somebody robbed a shop there, two nasty men armed with guns. An' your brother saw it. We think they might 'ave taken your brother as well, an' a little girl 'oo was with 'im."

Now this was more exciting. Stu sat up on his swing, turning to face Annie rather than his feet.

"So everyone in the country's lookin' fer Gene? Can I come? Can I come look fer Gene?"

A shadow of an expression passed over Annie's face before she shook her head.

"No, sorry, Stu. I'm sure yer'd be very useful, but we can't take yer down ter London, not with these dangerous people runnin' about. Besides, if Gene's away, someone needs ter keep yer mammy company, don't they?"

Stu was about to protest that he had a father, but promptly decided that he wasn't really the 'keeping-the-wife-company' kind and simply closed his mouth again, nodding. He'd have to be the big boy while Gene was away. He found he was rather looking forward to it.

"I 'ave ter be a big boy while Gene's away."

Annie nodded, dropping her head. Stu thought he saw a tear in one of her eyes, but she blinked it away so quickly he couldn't be sure that it wasn't just the light.

"See, the thing is, Stu, Gene might- Gene might not come back. We really 'ope 'e will, but… if these nasty people 'urt 'im, Gene might not be comin' back. So yer goin' ter 'ave ter be a very big boy fer yer mammy, because if that 'appens, she'll be very sad, an' miss Gene lots an' lots, an' she'll need a big boy ter 'elp 'er get better again."

Stu frowned. Why wouldn't Gene be coming back? He'd come back when Dad had broken his arm, and he'd come back when he'd cut his hand on broken glass at the old factory. Gene always came back at some point.

"Why might Gene not be comin' back?"

Annie turned fully to face him, picking nervously at her fingernails in her lap. The nails made little clicking sounds in the silence of the garden.

"Why?"

"Yeah."

A louder click, and a snap. Annie dropped her eyes, staring at her broken fingernail, speaking in a soft, sorrowful voice that made the hairs on the back of Stu's neck stand on end.

"Because… because the nasty men might kill Gene, Stu. And if they kill him, then he won't ever come back, because he'll be dead."

Dead.

Grandma had died, ages ago, and after they'd gone to the church and listened to Grandma's favourite hymn, she'd never come back either. He'd kept expecting her to come through the door and ruffle his hair, but she never had, and Mammy had cried in secret, but then she'd been better again.

But if Gene was dead… they'd only seen Grandma once every few months. Gene _lived_ with them. Gene was his _brother_. Mammy would miss Gene a lot more than she'd missed Grandma. She'd be sad for much longer. And so would he. He'd have no-one to play with, or take him to school, or sneak into the cinema with. There'd be a Gene-sized hole in his life.

A world without Gene was not a world that Stu really wanted to live in.

His face crumpled.

"MAMMY!"

He was off the tyre swing before Annie could say anything more, hurtling through to the lounge and onto Mammy's lap with tears pouring down his cheeks, and Mammy let out a fresh wail and buried her face in his curls, sobbing and sobbing, harder than he'd ever seen Mammy cry before. Her arms were so tight round him he thought she'd never let him go as they cried together, the little gold bangle Gene had bought Mammy for her birthday a month ago brushing against his neck, reminding them both that there was supposed to be a third person in that cuddle, a very important third person, and that they might never get the chance to cuddle him again.

* * *

><p>It may just have been a trick of the light, or a muscle spasm.<p>

But for a split second, Alex was certain that she saw Gene's bottom lip quiver, as the gun stared into his eye and his eye stared back.

"You try that again, sonny, and I'll fill you with so much lead you'll be used to make church roofs," the man snarled, seizing Gene's shoulder and throwing him back into the corner, kicking him in the stomach. Gene gasped, winded, wrapping his arms round his tummy as Alex squeaked on the other side of the room, eyes so wide he could see the whites all round her green irises.

"You understand?"

"Piss off," Gene hissed, only to receive another boot in the stomach, this one crashing into his bottom rib. He couldn't stop a yelp of pain as he felt the skin splitting, blood soaking into his new shirt. _Mam's goin' ter kill me._ But he knew, as he looked up into the cold face of the man above him, that it wasn't his mother he had to worry about killing him right now.

"Watch your tongue, kid. Or we'll hurt you, plenty more, and then we'll kill your little friend here, and make you watch as she bleeds to death, nice and slowly, in lots of pain. We'll cut her arms off with knives and throw them in your face, and then we'll slice off each and every little toe and force them into your mouth. And then we'll chop that pretty little head off when she's dead, and hang it from the ceiling above you, so the blood from her pretty little neck drips down onto your head and dries in your hair. And then- then- we'll cut her open and tie you up with her entrails, and smother you with her flesh. You want that?"

"No," Gene whispered, his eyes flicking between Alex's and their captor's, hurriedly disguised fear staining the bright blue irises. Alex swayed on the spot, eyes unfocused, her legs threatening to collapse beneath her as one man leaned forwards, running the muzzle of his gun down her neck before stepping away and spitting at her.

"I hate kids," he snarled, jerking at his partner's arm. "Come on, we've got better things to do than beat eight-year-olds up. Even if they've deserved it with their bloody cheek." He emphasised his point by kicking Gene in the shin, grinning mirthlessly as Gene hissed with pain, cradling his leg. "We'll be counting up our hoard. Have fun, kids."

With a wave and a quick burst of smug laughter, the door closed behind the two men, leaving Gene nursing his aching chest and Alex trembling from head to toe in the opposite corner, mouth hanging open in a silent scream, as though her shriek had choked on her complete and utter terror.

* * *

><p>For the first time in his life, Gene thought seriously about death.<p>

His Grandma had died, a few days after his seventh birthday. He'd not been allowed to talk about it in front of Stu because it might upset him, and Mammy didn't want to talk about it, becoming teary every time he so much as mentioned Grandma. It had been the first death he'd ever really experienced, but Grandma had talked to him about it once when she was alive, sitting with him out in the garden as Stu drove his toy truck all over the lavender.

"When yer die, yer go ter 'eaven, Genie," she'd told him, her frail veiny hands clasped on her flower-patterned lap as he lay on his stomach in front of her, fiddling with a blade of grass. "An' yer at peace. Everythin's 'appy, an' yer can watch yer family from up in the clouds an' wave down at them, even though they won't be able ter see yer wavin'. An' everyone yer ever loved 'oo's died will be there with yer. Yer won't feel pain, or sadness, because yer at peace, utterly an' completely. Yer've 'ad yer life, an' now yer in 'eaven."

"Why doesn't everyone just die, if 'eaven's that good?" he'd asked, splitting the grass in two. Grandma had given a bark of laughter, her brittle, deep chuckles making Stu jump in the middle of driving his truck down a lavender stem.

"Yer 'ave ter live a life though, don't yer, Genie? Otherwise, 'eaven won't be peaceful, because yer won't know what peace is. An' besides, sometimes, Earth is better than 'eaven. Because yer get ter 'ave all yer adventures 'ere, an' then when yer go ter 'eaven, yer at peace, yer've 'ad all yer adventures."

He'd thought it was silly, having all your life and then just going to sit around all day in heaven. He'd much rather be doing something, meeting other people and having fun. And if you were watching people you'd left behind all the time, watching them crying, wouldn't you feel sad too? Wouldn't you want to cry too, because they were sad? It always made Gene feel bad when his mammy cried; if you couldn't do anything about it, if they were crying because of you, it would be unbearable. But Grandma hadn't said anything else, instead asking him how he'd got that bruise on his cheek, and he'd had to make something up on the spot, thus ending the conversation about death.

But now, curled around Alex as she shuddered with sobs in his arms, Gene wondered what it would be like to die. Not so much the part about heaven- that could wait. Actually dying.

It would be painful, he guessed. If they shot him, it would hurt, a lot. Much more than when Stu 'shot' him with his slingshot, and that was horrible, bad enough that when he caught up with Stu he normally socked him one for it. Bullets were bigger than pebbles, and guns were more powerful than slingshots. But even if they shot him, would they shoot Alex too? Maybe if he told them to shoot him instead of her, or stood in front of her so they could only shoot him… he could take it, he had to be strong. He had to be strong for Alex.

She was clever, had her whole life ahead of her. Gene was just a fleabitten Northerner, whose father probably wouldn't even notice he was gone and whose life would probably consist of trying and failing to become a policeman before something managed to kill him. She would become something great, and Gene… Gene wouldn't. He just had to protect her.

And for that reason, he was willing to sacrifice himself for her. The world would be better off minus a Gene than minus an Alex. Alex trusted him to protect her… and protect her he would.

But even this brave, selfless resolve didn't stop his heart thudding or tears springing to his eyes as footsteps approached the door once again.

* * *

><p>AN: Blame AS Eng Lit for the angst. It wasn't me. Honest, guv'nor. Now an ad break:

*sad music*

As you may have heard, thousands of students across Britain are taking their exams now. This means an update famine for fanfics, and possible abandonment of some for long periods of time.

*picture of fanfic slumped in gutter, holding picture of author*

But there is a way to help.

Reviews can revitalise these authors and encourage them to find their fanfics once again. Muses are rekindled, brought back to life by this revitalising force. It's so simple- just one review per reader can save a fanfic from abandonment. So do it now. Press the review button today to save a fanfic from neglect.

Remember: a fanfic is for life, not just for the first chapter.

Thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

The stale bread one of the men had thrown into the cellar sat untouched on the other side of the room, flung there in disgust by Gene. He doubted Alex had even noticed its presence, burying her head in his chest the second the door opened and shuddering with sobs, her tears seeping into his shirt. It hurt his sore stomach, having her there, but Gene wasn't about to throw her off; she needed him, and he wasn't going to let her down.

It was nighttime, he could tell by the cooling air in the cellar; thank bloody God it was nearly summer, and the house above provided enough warmth to keep them safe if they huddled together. Which he knew they would be doing. The one time he'd tried to disentangle Alex's fingers from his jumper, she'd yelped at him to stop it and clung even tighter, thus eradicating his chances of escaping any time soon from her clutches. Not that he really minded that much. Better than being on his own.

She'd fallen asleep, her head resting on his chest, head rising and dipping in time with his breathing. Her dusky brown hair tickled his nose, and he brushed it away, resting his head back against the wall of the cellar and stretching his gangly legs out, exhaling in a long, soft sigh. God, he'd been almost happy just this morning, and now here he was, staring Death in the face with a little girl utterly dependant on him curled round his skinny, aching body. As he looked down at her, her petite face and long eyelashes, the air in the cellar seemed to thin, as though they were in a locked vault and the air supply was running out.

Gene closed his eyes, drew his legs back up towards him, and fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed of a bright red car screaming through the streets of London, and driving past them over and over, high up there in the street, always slowing down just as it reached the front door, and each time he'd catch a flash of black leather driving gloves and snakeskin boot before the car roared away again. And somehow, it reassured him.

* * *

><p>Alex lay wrapped around Gene, slipping in and out of consciousness, squeezing Gene's hand each time he fidgeted or whimpered in his sleep.<p>

She dreamed of a small, claustrophobic room, the only light coming from a silver cigarette lighter lying on the floor, the air slowly running out. At first she was scared, but then Gene was there, holding his arm out for her to snuggle into, his fingers rough and reassuring on her back as she told him they couldn't die, she couldn't die, she had to get back. Back where, she didn't know, and didn't need to know, because all she cared about was that they would get back.

* * *

><p><em>Some old biddy rung- she's seen the van.<em>

_ The van! Where, where did she see it?_

_ Parked outside an empty house in Charing Cross. Says a Rodney Jackson goes there a lot, and his mate's been lodging there, Steven Chorley. Reckons the description fits them. Rodney's got form, couple of blags in '72 and '75. The Guv reckons they're responsible for others, but they couldn't pin it on them._

_ How soon can we get someone to Charing Cross?_

_ The Guv's on his way now. Told me to get you off your idle arse and take a squad car._

_ Nice of him to think of me. Come on then, Skip'll have the keys to something._

_ We'll have to hurry. If those kids are still alive, they won't be hanging on 'til we get there- and if they're not, they're unlikely to still have the bodies._

_ Shit, don't say that. I've got a lad Eugene's age. Our Quinnie… even looks a bit like him._

_ I'll do you a deal, then. If we find Eugene's body, I'll read the coroner's report, and you can do Alexandra's. Now shift!_

* * *

><p>Under normal circumstances, Ray Carling didn't do sadness.<p>

He wasn't like Chris, who would keep going through anything with the enthusiasm of a collie puppy; nor was he quite like Gene, who always hid his emotions under a façade of surly disinterest. He just muddled along, one of the lads, messing around at school in the day and half-inching whisky from the larder at night to down with the other boys behind the community centre, always the first to start laughing at the poor sod who got drunk the quickest. He didn't have much to be sad about, and a reasonable amount to feel content about.

But, as he glanced at the empty seats in the classroom where Gene and Alex should have been sat, it was there, sadness for his missing comrades and sadness for what might be their eventual fates.

Was it really just a few hours ago that he'd towed Gene on the toboggan in the hotel, pulling him out of the wreckage only to be caught by Mrs Baker? He glanced down at his hand, the memory of Gene's rough, warm fingers in it making his skin tingle. Gene was just like him, a poor kid with a father who expected more than he could give, looked down on by people like Mrs Hingston; he felt selfish and idle, sitting here when there was someone in trouble, someone he wanted to help.

Brian beside him was restless, picking at his fingernails and scratching his neck, his head jerking up whenever the phone rang; each time Mrs Pankhurst would pick it up, turn away, and turn back with an expression of disappointment on her face, and an icicle would slide down Ray's chest to join the iceberg in his chest. If anything else, Gene was almost his friend. He should be doing something for him, some tiny thing at the very least…

Sod this. He wasn't sitting in some draughty classroom while Gene and Alex were in danger. He was off.

"Oi, Davis?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's get out of 'ere."

The sentiment was unspoken, but rang in every syllable of the simple exchange: _let's go an' find Gene an' Alex._

Brian nodded, his eyes flicking between Mrs Pankhurst and the door, silently planning their escape as the teacher surveyed the room, tapping her fingers on the telephone; the moment she had her back turned to deal with a snivelling little girl on the other side of the room, Brian bolted out of the door and towards the fire exit at the front of the school, Ray close on his heels.

The corridor was eerily silent, the crackle of a police radio making both boys jump as they approached the fire escape doors; Ray peered round the corner, disguising himself with someone's PE bag, and shook his head back at Brian, disappointment etched on his face.

"There's a copper there. We won't get past 'im. 'Ave ter use the bogs, go through one o' the windows."

Brian winced. "OK." It was well-known in Manchester schools that this was only used as a last resort for getting away; everyone knew someone who'd tried it only to find out that the toilet lid wasn't strong enough to support them and ended up with wet trousers or worse. Following Ray into the toilets, he murmured a quiet prayer that London had discovered the delight of strong toilet seats.

The first cubicle had no seat on the toilet, and only a small window; the second had no window at all. The third boasted a full-size window, a proper toilet seat and Christopher Skelton, currently in the middle of a wee, squealing in surprise and yanking his shirt down as the faces of the two older boys appeared over the top of the cubicle door.

"Hey! I'm in 'ere!"

"We would never 'ave guessed," Ray sighed, rolling his eyes. "Hurry up, we need ter go through the window."

"Why're yer goin' through the window?"

"We're goin' ter go an' look fer Gene an' Alex."

And there it was, the enthusiasm. Christopher's eyes lit up as though he'd been offered Christmas on a plate, fumbling with his trousers as he pulled them up into place.

"Can I come?"

Ray and Brian exchanged glances, shrugging.

"Fine. Long as yer don't mess everythin' up. Yer 'ave ter do everythin' we say, understood? An' if we find 'em, it was our idea."

"OK," Christopher grinned, flipping the toilet lid down and clambering on top of it, pushing the window open. Ray groaned.

"Christopher, if yer would open the ruddy door so we can get in…"

* * *

><p>"Where the bloody 'ell are we?"<p>

"London?" Christopher tried, turning full circle to look for a road sign and so managing to avoid the scathing looks he promptly received from Ray and Brian. There were no road signs in sight, not even a street name; the two posts where it should have been were standing empty at the end of the road, boasting only two metal struts running between them. After twenty minutes of walking, the three boys were hopelessly lost.

"What about when we 'ave ter get back?" Brian moaned, kicking a clump of grass on someone's drive. Ray rolled his eyes.

"We're not goin' back. Not 'til we've found Gene an' Alex. Grow some, Brian, yer poof."

"What did you say?"

Swinging round, Brian squared his shoulders, advancing threateningly on Ray; Ray, deciding this was as good a time for a brawl as any, cracked his knuckles, drawing himself up to his full height and baring his teeth as Brian glared straight into Ray's eyes…

"There! There!"

Christopher's high-pitched voice broke through the fight brewing between the two boys, Ray swerving round to see him; Christopher was pointing to a white van parked fifty yards away, the curtains of the house behind it drawn. Ray raised his eyebrows.

"What?"

"That's the van!" Christopher drew a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, holding it up to Ray. "They said what the numberplate was on the news, and it's the same, look!"

Clasped between Christopher's nail-bitten fingers, the scrap of paper read _HRT 903M_. Exactly the same as the white Ford Econoline sitting innocently across the road from them, parked outside the ghost house.

Ray yelped.

"We've found 'em! Christopher, you beauty!"

He seized Christopher, pulling him off his feet and squeezing all the air out of him in a bear hug; Brian ignored the younger boy's spluttering and gasping, his eyes fixed on the house, eyebrows pursed in thought.

"So what now?"

Ray's expression rapidly changing from jubilation to thought was enough to tell Brian that his comrade hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Um… call the cops. They can break the door down." He didn't want to admit it, but he didn't really fancy barging in if Gene and Alex's captors had guns. Better to leave that to people who really knew what they were doing. His father had told him once that rash actions put not only the rescuer's life in danger, but also the captives'; he had no intentions of acting like a div and causing either Gene or Alex to be shot.

"There's a phone box back 'ere!" Christopher started running back the way they'd come, beckoning frantically to the other boys. "Come on!"

None of the boys, as they took off, noticed the curtains of the house twitching, nor the face that disappeared into the darkness as the fabric swung back into place, a cruel smile twisting its mouth.

* * *

><p><em>Guv! Phone call from a little boy in Bath Terrace- he says he's spotted the van in that street. Says he took the numberplate down from the news article.<em>

_ Bath Terrace? Bloody hell… they must've doubled back. Bastards, we've been crawling all over Charing Cross! All this time they've been ten minutes from the school!_

_ Yeah, never mind the rant- shall we get on our way? We can have a rant later… after the kids are safe._

* * *

><p>"My head aches."<p>

"Never mind."

"Gene, my head _really _aches."

"What d'you expect me ter do about it? I didn't come prepared with painkillers, did I?"

Gene hadn't meant to snap, but his emotions and fatigue had caught up with him, fogging his judgement enough to make him want to lash out at her; the moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted them, feeling for Alex in the darkness only to hear her sniff hard and move away from him. He sighed under his breath, curling into himself instead, burying his face in his knees as he gathered them up into his arms.

"I know you didn't. But you're clever, you might have known something."

"I'm not clever."

"Yes you are. You had all the ideas for our project. And you knew how to spell 'because' when I didn't. You _are _clever."

Gene snorted.

"Who you tryin' ter kid? Yer the kid 'oo's parents dote on 'em. Bet they read ter yer every night, an' 'elp yer with yer 'omework, an' go ter parents' evenin'."

"Don't yours?"

"My dad comes 'ome from the pub an' beats the lot of us senseless. My mam would 'elp me if she knew anythin' about the stuff I was doin', but she 'asn't got a clue, especially with science an' stuff. She sometimes reads ter me, but she's no good at it, gets the words mixed up an' can't pronounce 'em right. Parents' evenin'? She went once, an' someone tried ter get nosy an' asked why she 'ad a black eye. Never been back since."

Gene lapsed into silence, brooding in the gloom; Alex rested her head back against the wall, her eyes on the glimmer of blond hair just about visible in the darkness of the cellar, stunned by this sudden insight into the Hunt family. _Poor Gene._ Her daddy had never raised a hand to her, and the last time her mummy had smacked her, she'd been too young to remember it properly; her daddy read to her every night when he was there, even though often her mummy stayed downstairs with Evan and let her read to herself when he wasn't. She couldn't imagine Mummy not knowing the answer to something, or not being able to read properly, or not going to Parents' Evening and beaming at how clever Alex was and the latest thing she'd had Blu-tacked onto the wall of the classroom. Her mummy always took an interest in her education. It wasn't right that Gene's mummy didn't… and his daddy shouldn't hit him. Or get drunk every night. Mummies and daddies shouldn't get drunk, they had to look after their children.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was quiet, almost meek; Gene frowned, turning his head towards where he imagined her to be.

"What for?"

"For what I asked you when we met. It was nasty. If I'd known, I wouldn't have said it."

"You didn't know, so don't beat yerself up. I don't blame yer. Yer nosy, it's natural." Gene yawned, curling his legs up further beneath himself. "I don't ever tell people, anyway. Don't need pity, or sympathy. I'm tough. I can deal with it."

"Why did you tell me?"

"Got nothin' ter lose. They'll kill me. I don't think they'll kill you."

"I won't let them kill you."

Gene gave a soft, tired laugh, closing his eyes against the suffocating darkness. In that second, he sounded so much older than eight; it made Alex shudder, how defeated and weary he sounded, as though worn out already, sick of life and its pains before ever really knowing what it was about.

"Think about it, Alex. You've got a future, 'aven't yer? Yer smart, yer'll go ter university, get a great job, 'ave clever kids with a brilliant husband. I'll be married off far too young, ter a girl I don't really love, workin' at the docks like my dad, nothin' ter keep goin' for. If they kill one of us, it 'as ter be me, 'cos yer got much more ter live for than me."

He thought Alex was still, digesting what he'd said; the soft hand on his arm proved him wrong, pulling at his elbow until he surrendered and let her fling her arms round him, resting her head against his warm, skinny chest, closing her eyes to savour the steady rise and fall of his ribs on her chest. Gene rested his chin on her crown, exhaling slowly through his nose, eyes staring into the nothingness behind her, one thumb rubbing circles on her back, just like his mother did for him when he was scared or hurt and she was comforting him.

"We're not going to die," Alex whispered to him, tilting her head up, staring at him. "Are we?"

Gene braced himself, looking down into her hazel-flecked eyes, and instantly felt his chest start to hurt.

"Come 'ere," he murmured, pressing her back into his chest, holding her securely against himself as he felt her start to cry, warm tears soaking into his jumper and through onto his chest. Alex clung desperately to him, muffling her sobs in the comfort of his jumper, and Gene shushed her, eyes darting round over her head, hoping desperately that she couldn't feel the hammering in his chest through his clothing.

A door banged somewhere above.

"Shit!"

"GENE!" Alex yelped, grabbing at him in terror, sheltering herself in his arms; Gene pushed her behind him, backing away from the door as footsteps echoed down the stairs and the door flew open, the silhouette in the doorway brandishing a gun.

"We've been spotted," the man growled, pointing the gun at Gene; the boy gritted his jaw, ignoring the feel of Alex trembling behind him. "So you're going to be good kiddies and come with us now, aren't you? You remember what I said we'd do?"

"If someone's spotted yer, yer wouldn't 'ave time ter do all that before the police arrived." Gene pushed against Alex's side, trying to steer her round to behind him, out of the way of the gun; she refused to move, sliding out from behind him, unwrapping her arms from his torso to stand bravely beside him, chin thrust out in defiance. Gene could have hit her.

"I wouldn't bet on that, sonny. You going to be a good boy and come with us, or are we going to have to hurt you?"

"Yer goin' ter 'ave ter shoot me ter get ter 'er," Gene growled, moving once again to stand in front of Alex; she hissed his name, trying to shove him out of the way, but Gene refused to budge, clenching his fists as the man laughed, beckoning his friend into the cellar beside him.

"Look at this. The boy's trying to defend his little friend. Is she your girlfriend, sonny? You fancy her, do you?"

He laughed, a cruel, mirthless sound; his friend joined in after a second, hefting his own gun to catch the light seeping in from the doorway. Gene just caught the screech of tyres somewhere outside.

"Well? You going to take a bullet for her? Really?"

The man stepped forwards, his arm extending to press the gun against Gene's forehead; Gene swallowed hard, suddenly tasting bile at the back of his throat, desperately hoping that the shaking of his hands wasn't visible in the darkness.

"You know what it's like being shot, sonny? It's painful, and bloody, and it's a slow death, if the shooter aims it in the right place. Like here, for instance…"

The gun trailed down Gene's cheek, over his jaw, and onto his chest, coming to rest over his rib cage, prodding into his skin. Alex whimpered next to him.

"It punctures your lung, and you eventually drown in your own blood. Did you know that, sonny? You're bleeding, in so much pain that you can't think of anything else, and then you can't breathe, you're gasping, coughing up blood, and it's so warm, trickling down your chin and onto your neck, staining your lips red, coating your mouth so you can't taste anything but blood, and all the time you're getting weaker and weaker, and the weaker you get the more desperate you are to breathe, but you can never breathe enough to satisfy your needs… you want that?"

Gene looked down at the gun, pressing into the knitted fibres of his jumper, the jumper his Mammy had knitted him. In the gloom, all he could see was the barrel of the gun.

He reached up and seized the barrel with one hand.

"If yer want ter kill me… kill me. But don't kill 'er. She didn't do anythin'. Please… she's only little."

"So are you, Gene," Alex whispered, her hand grasping his spare one. "You're only little too."

Gene turned to look at her, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, the ghost of a reassuring smile on her face as her fingers squeezed his.

"I'm not. I told yer, I'm tough… like a lion. Yeah, I'm like a lion. I can fight back."

And suddenly the gun was on the other side of the room and Gene's knee was in the man's crotch, and Alex screamed as Gene yanked her towards the doorway, barging into the silhouette standing there with all the force he could muster and managing to knock him to one side-

Gene was fighting the hand clamped round his arm, screaming obscenities, pushing Alex up the stairs as the other man struggled to his feet and whipped round searching for his gun-

Alex was lunging for the man's arm, scratching at his face, trying to pull him off Gene, swerving round as something banged into the front door and the crunch of splintering wood reached the cellar-

One hand found the gun-

Gene twisted round as voices yelled from upstairs-

BANG.

And then everything was confusion, and Alex was seized by someone as someone else clattered down to the cellar, two more gunshots echoing round the cellar and screams from the men as someone hoisted Alex up into their arms and she fought to get back to Gene.

"Gene- Gene, where- GENE!"

Her heart nearly stopped.

Gene lay in the doorway, a police officer kneeling by his side. Blood pouring from his arm.

"No, Gene, Gene, no!"

Alex kicked at the officer, forcing them to drop her, scrambling to Gene's side as he weakly lifted his head at the sound of her voice, his spare hand pressed to the freely-bleeding wound in his bicep, the bright scarlet blood staining his ghostly white skin. Someone called for a stretcher, but Alex barely heard them, her ears filled with Gene's struggling panting, pain laced through every breath.

"Gene- someone help-"

"I'm OK," Gene whispered, his eyes flickering up to hers, his bloodied hand reaching for hers. "Don't worry 'bout me…"

"You will be OK," Alex whispered, refusing to look away, gripping his hand as his own fingers grew weaker. "I won't let you not be OK."

The very corner of his lip twitched. Alex opened her mouth to stay something else, but as she took a breath in Gene's eyes slipped closed, his hand becoming lazy in hers as his head fell back against the wall.

"Gene… GENE!"

* * *

><p>AN: Goodness me, I am mean… so will Gene make it? You'll have to stay tuned to find out! Please remember to review, Save the Fanfics implores you to remember this important detail. And for those of you who haven't seen it, may I recommend Tales of Television Centre, in which we see a rather cute picture of a nine-year-old Phil Glenister? It was my inspiration for this chapter. (Although not the whole shooting him business. That would have been a bit weird if I'd seen a picture of little Phil and gone "Must shoot him…" I'm a nice person really.)


	8. Chapter 8

_He could see the man aiming out of the corner of his eye, the glint of the barrel, the growl of anger just audible beneath the yells of the police officers storming the house. The light streaming into the room lit up his eyes, the manic gleam in them only brightening as he took aim._

_ Straight at Alex._

_ His finger tightened on the trigger._

No!

_Gene launched himself sideways, flinging his arm out as the gunshot rang out._

_ He was totally unprepared for the explosion of pain from his bicep and the warm slide of blood down his cold skin._

_ He could hear Alex screaming, hear the men being arrested, someone dropping to their haunches beside him as he let himself fall to the floor, panting for breath. Everything was swimming, and he wondered if this was it, if this was the end, if he was going to heaven now to be with Grandma, his last ever deed to save the life of a posh little girl who'd come to rely completely on him…_

_ "Gene- someone help-"_

_ "I'm OK," Gene whispered, his chest aching at the blatant lie. Alex's face was blurred, but he could still make out the huge green eyes, the hazel flecks and the sheen of tears, her sobs betraying her care for him. For him, the snot-nosed Mancunian boy who had stumbled into her privileged world and found himself completely out of his league, only able to do the one thing that came easily to him: protect someone._

_ Reaching out, he tried to dispel some of the terror in her eyes."Don't worry 'bout me…"He didn't know if he'd succeeded, because even as he forced the words out, Alex was going out of focus, and his heavy eyelids were dragging over his blurred sight as the last thing he heard whispered in his ear: "I won't let you not be OK."_

_ Had he been fully conscious, he might have smiled. But it was all he could manage to twitch his lip as the darkness took him over completely, the back of his head resting back against something as the world disappeared._

* * *

><p>Gene was floating.<p>

If he squinted, he could just make out white lights all around him, so bright they made his eyes ache, pointing slightly down so that his body was in shadow. Or at least, he assumed it was in shadow. He couldn't feel that much, and so decided not to try and look down, because he didn't know what he'd find there.

Floating…

Well, he could safely assume that he wasn't in heaven, because there was no sign of Grandma; he was pretty sure she'd be there in his heaven, even though he hadn't seen her that often. And she'd said in heaven, there was no pain, and you were at peace. Gene's arm ached, just where he was sure he'd been shot, and he certainly didn't feel peaceful- he felt like punching something, lashing out to try and dispel some of the worry he felt. He wanted his mam, and he wanted to stop floating, he wanted some reassurance and some comfort. Certain that nobody could see him, he let his eyes prick with tears, determinedly sniffing to try and contain the emotion that threatened to suffocate him.

"You never understand that it's OK ter cry, do yer?"

"What?"

Gene swerved round, or at least it felt like he swerved round. Someone was stood behind him, above the bright lights, a smile on his placid face as he crouched to Gene's level, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Yer not dead, Gene. I promise. The bullet didn't kill yer, yer in 'ospital an' yer safe. Alex is safe too. Don't worry."

"'Ow d'you know? Who are you?"

The man smiled softly, his hand rough and reassuring on Gene's skin.

"My name's Sam. 'Ow do I know? Same way as you'll know in a second. Look down, Gene."

A frown on his face, Gene craned his neck, looking down on what he assumed to be the floor of wherever he was.

He gasped.

The bright lights were those of an operating theatre, all directed down on an operating table. On which he lay.

Everyone was clustered round his right arm, working on the wound a few inches below his shoulder, what he suspected was the bullet on a small tray beside the table beside a row of faintly blood-stained tools. Gene looked up at his head, eyes widening as he took in his own closed eyes, the ventilator tube in his mouth, the drip bag full of blood emptying into his left hand. A machine stood by his side, bleeping with each heartbeat, just like in the medical dramas Mammy liked watching.

"See?" Sam said gently, his thumb rubbing Gene's shoulder. "Yer not dead. I suspect yer've been better, but yer not dead. They've got the bullet out an' they're just repairin' some o' the damage it did. Yer won't be able ter use yer arm too much fer a while, but don't worry, there won't be any permanent damage, just a scar that yer can show off ter yer mates when the bandages come off."

"Sure?"

"Absolutely. There'd be much more panic than this if you were in any real danger. An' Alex is waitin' outside fer yer, demandin' updates every five minutes. She won't go 'ome with 'er mum until she's seen yer, until she knows yer safe. Yer should be in theatre fer about another fifteen minutes, but not too much longer- though I doubt she'll be goin' 'ome until she's seen yer. They've told 'er yer saved 'er life."

"I…"

Sam simply grinned, nodding.

"Yeah, they saw."

"What else was I supposed ter do?"

"Yer did the right thing. Yer saved Alex's life. Yer an 'ero. Gene Hunt, eight years old, an 'ero. Yer mam'll be so proud."

"Yeah… she will." Gene's chest swelled, his back straightening a little as he looked straight up at Sam, dragging his eyes away from the pitiful sight beneath him. Sam grinned.

"Say hi ter Alex fer me, eh? I'm sure we'll meet again someday, but I've got ter go an' you should too. Not sure 'ow the logistics of this work, but out-of-body experiences tend ter stop yer wakin' up. Be'ave now, I know you- yer'll 'ave those bandages off in the blink of an eye an' end up gettin' an infection. I did warn yer… in a sense. Not you. Other you. Christ, this is confusing…"

"Other me? What other me?"

"Yer might find out someday," Sam said gently, squeezing Gene's left arm. "I'm not sure whether ter say I 'ope yer do or I 'ope yer don't, an' I'm not sure 'ow the future works from 'ere, but Gene, if yer ever on a stakeout in 2005, an' there's a man with a shotgun, keep back, yeah? An' fer Christ's sake, don't try ter be the 'ero too often."

"What… 2005? A man with a shotgun?"

"If it 'appens, listen ter yer DI. That's all I'll say ter yer. Do as 'e says, because 'e might well know best, despite 'ow pig-'eaded you are."

"I'm not pig-'eaded!"

Gene pouted, hands on hips, only for Sam to burst out laughing, wiping his eyes as Gene stared at him with an expression best suited to someone who had just seen Jesus sitting on their sofa chatting to Doctor Who and Albert Einstein.

"I always wondered when yer started poutin' like that… sorry. I really must go now. It's been great chattin' ter yer, I always said yer might 'ave been cute once. Get better soon, yeah? Good luck."

And before Gene could quiz him on anything else, Sam had pulled him into a huge bear hug and vanished into the bright lights of the operating theatre.

Leaving them to swallow Gene, dragging him down as he struggled for breath, a monitor bleeping somewhere in the far distance and a surgeon's hands brushing his mouth as the world went black…

* * *

><p>"Will Gene have lots of bandages on him?"<p>

"On his arm, yes. Probably not on the rest of him."

"And will he have a tube in his mouth to make him breathe?"

"No, sweetheart. He'd only have needed that while he was in theatre and asleep. He'll be able to breathe normally now, without a tube, but he might need a mask if he gets out of breath."

"So he'll be able to talk to me?"

"Probably. He might be sleepy though, and he might fall asleep whilst you're talking to him, and if he does you'll have to leave quietly, OK? And not wake him up again so he can carry on talking. He'll need lots of sleep."

"Thank you," Alex whispered timidly, her fingers clenching on Caroline Price's hand; Caroline gave the nurse bending to talk to Alex a crooked smile, pulling Alex gently away and towards the room where Gene Hunt was, her heels clacking on the grimy floor.

_Gene Hunt._

Caroline had been told, in no uncertain terms, how Gene had saved her daughter's life, taking the bullet that would have killed or permanently brain-damaged little Alex in his own arm in his bid to protect her. She had to admit that, at first, she'd been somewhat lukewarm towards this mysterious Northern boy, perhaps a little disapproving, but the moment the police officers had told her what Gene had done any misgivings she might have had had fallen away, replaced by a fierce gratitude. She wouldn't be holding her little girl's hand now had Gene not been there, or certainly Alex wouldn't be holding hers back. Even the thought brought tears to her normally stern eyes, softening them in the glare of the hospital strip lighting.

The door shrilled as she pushed it slowly open.

Her first thought, upon entering, was that Gene was surprisingly cute, even with pale skin and heavy eyelids: floppy blond hair, brilliant blue eyes and strikingly long eyelashes, she knew he'd be a stunner in later life. The woman she assumed to be his mother sat on the edge of a plastic visitors' chair, stroking her little boy's hand; a younger boy, somewhat wild-looking with ruffled blond curls and crumpled clothing, was playing with his brother's drip feed, winding it round his arm and pretending it was feeding him too as Gene sat propped up on several pillows, a grin on his face as Eileen Hunt squeezed his fingers and whispered her pride for him over and over again.

"Mrs Hunt?"

Caroline let go of her daughter's hand, deciding to let the children greet each other without her intervention; Alex flew straight to the bed and leapt onto it, a scream of "Thank you!" renting the air as she pulled Gene into a hug and burst into tears on his good shoulder. Eileen watched them, a watery beam on her face, standing up to meet Caroline and immediately having to brace herself as the woman threw herself straight at her, pulling her into a huge embrace. Stu watched, his jaw hanging open, wondering if the world had gone completely crazy as Alex wept into Gene's T-shirt and the two women cried on each other's shoulders, clutching each other as though they were drowning.

"How is he?" Caroline managed to choke out, pulling a chair up to sit herself down; Eileen collapsed back into her seat, the tearful smile still coating her face.

"No permanent damage, just a few scars. 'E'll love showin' 'em off ter the other boys, you know what lads are."

Caroline didn't, but she decided to keep it to herself, instead smiling at Gene as he turned to take her in, his arm round Alex's shoulder.

"Hello, Gene. I'm Alex's mother, Caroline." Easiest to treat him as an adult; he had just saved her daughter's life, after all. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks." His voice was a little croaky, but despite his sore throat every syllable still dripped with Mancunian accent. It was surprisingly charming.

"Your arm must be hurting."

"It's not so bad," Gene said stoically, a hint of a grin on his face. "Everyone'll think I'm really cool 'cos I've been shot. Nobody else I know's been shot, 'cept my dad."

"Eh, don't you go runnin' off inter the army too, Genie. I'm not 'avin' you runnin' around on some God-forsaken battlefield gettin' yerself killed," Eileen said gently, her hand on Gene's ruffled blond hair. "You alright, Alex? I'm Eileen, Gene's mam."

Alex shyly took the proferred hand, the grin on her face threatening to split it in half as she whispered her name; Caroline watched in silence, amazed by the effect this enigmatic little boy had had, diving head-first into her life, changing it dramatically, and topping it off by saving it. _And he clearly has no inkling. Do you know how lucky you are, Eileen, having a child like that? Alex can barely say boo to a goose._

"Oof!"

"Oh, sorry, Gene! It's not bleeding, is it? Are you alright?"

"No, it's not bleedin', but next time, Alex, don't lean on it!"

"I'll only lean on it when I'm drunk, then. Mummy says people do silly things when they're drunk."

"That's right," Caroline said firmly, her eyes on Alex's. "So you're not getting drunk any time soon, are you?"

"No, Mummy."

"You'd be a funny drunk," Gene grinned, nudging her with his good elbow. "Bet yer'd fall over everywhere, an' yer'd sound even posher than yer do now. What's that stuff you posh people get drunk on? Bol- Billinging?"

"Bollinger?" Caroline supplied, the ghost of a smile on her face. "We only have Bollinger on very special occasions, Gene. It's very expensive."

"But I bet yer can afford it- oops. I mean, erm, Alex said yer were a solicitor, so, erm…"

Gene was saved somewhat by the abrupt arrival of Mrs Baker, Ray, Chris and Brian, the three boys swamping his bed and tipping an unfortunate Stu off the end of it as his teacher promptly burst into tears at the sight of him, bending to hug him awkwardly as Eileen patted her back. _Is there somethin' about women that just makes 'em cry all the time?_

And from there the evening descended into something akin to barbarism.

* * *

><p>"I think it's time to go, Alex."<p>

Alex, dozing on her mother's lap, hadn't realised how much time had passed since the boys' arrival; her mother's watch told her it was nearly ten o'clock, long past Alex's normal bedtime, and the ward held a hushed silence as the nurses padded around on rubber soled shoes, trying not to disturb any of the sleeping patients. Of which one was young Gene Hunt, his blond hair scattered all over the pillow, face softened in sleep despite the pout still in place on it. Eileen stood up to walk Caroline to the door, motioning for her to dump Alex on Gene's bed for a second; Alex abruptly found herself snuggling up to him once again as her mother moved away, worried for a split second before Gene's warmth found its way to her skin and she relaxed, sitting up to observe him as he slumbered.

"Thank you for saving me, Gene," she whispered, bending so that her lips brushed his cheek, her hair dangling into his face. "Thank you so much. You're amazing."

And before either of the mothers could notice, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, his smooth skin warm and comforting beneath her mouth for one brilliant second before she had to sit up and slide off the bed at her mother's call. Murmuring a goodbye, she headed for the entrance, only risking one glimpse back at the bed before Caroline picked her up and carried her out of the ward, her high heels almost disturbingly loud on the linoleum tiles.

And so she missed Gene's eyes slipping open as she kissed him, regarding her sleepily as she hurried to her mother's side and Eileen shook hands with Caroline, the latter hoisting her daughter up into her arms to carry her out of the ward, disappearing out into the dimly-lit corridor. Eileen stayed where she was, watching them out; Gene closed his eyes again, giving in to his fatigue and the dull ache in his arm.

"Night, Bolly," he whispered into the gloom, fast asleep before Eileen could return to his side, only vaguely registering her goodnight kiss to his forehead as she curled up in a camp bed beside him.

He did not know that that nickname would stick for many years to come, nor that Alex Price was in no way, shape or form gone from his life yet. Nor did he know that, as he slept, a guardian angel kept watch over him, a placid, sweet-faced man in a dark leather jacket, or that if he lifted his tired head ever so slightly he would feel the faint rush of starlit wind on his cheek. Gene Hunt lay a wounded warrior in the white hospital bed, his mother's hand on his, and dreamed of the bright red car, this time the driver himself with a curly-haired woman in the passenger seat: every time he tried to speed up, the woman would put her hand on the crook of his arm and he would slow, turning to look at her, drinking in hazel eyes flecked with green as his consciousness refused to tell him whose hauntingly familiar eyes they were.

* * *

><p>Tucked up in her own bed at home, Alex's dusky hair blew lightly in a soft breeze too gentle for her to feel as the starlight too bright for her to see shone on her face.<p>

She dreamed of a man with thick blond hair and eyes like stormy jewels, clutching the wheel of a bright red car, his magician's fingers covered by black leather driving gloves. She could not place the eyes, but they drew her in, made every inch of her feel safe, and so she did the same for him, placing her hand on his warm, firm arm every time the firm set of his jaw slipped and the car surged out of control.

She did not hear the door slipping open, or the muffled thud of high heels on her thick carpet, nor see the curly-haired woman with tears sliding down her cheeks cross to the place where she hid her diary and slide her hand down to touch it, stroking the cover as though it were her child's cheek. The tears fell to the floor and stained the carpet red, but the moment they dried they vanished, taking all trace of the lost woman watching the little girl with them.

The door made no sound as it was drawn closed behind her. A church bell tolled midnight somewhere in the distance, and Alex smiled into her pillow, her hand curling round the edge of her duvet as her child's imagination turned it into Gene's slender hand.

* * *

><p>"I would hope that we have learnt a lot of things from this exchange, children. We have learnt about tolerance, friendship, other people's lives. Overall, I would hope that we have learnt to co-operate."<p>

Mrs Hingston paused dramatically, her nose pinched as she scanned the crowd of children before her, eyes flicking up and down as each child fell silent under her scrutiny. Gene Hunt she saved for last, her eyes boring into his as he dropped his gaze to his sling, fiddling with the bandage on his arm as Mrs Baker tapped his hand.

"Some of us have learnt rather a lot more than others. Eugene Hunt showed extreme bravery in the face of very possible death, protecting his friend at his own cost, a trait I admire greatly, especially in one so young. I would hope that the rest of you would follow his example and help those around you in need."

Amelia Forester shuffled her feet in the dust, unable to meet Mrs Hingston's eyes; her two cronies melted away from her side, silently slipping in between two other girls from the year above. Alex couldn't help a grin as Mrs Hingston continued, her eyes still on Gene's bowed blond head as Mrs Baker beamed with pride.

"We would have lost a brilliant student had it not been for Eugene's brave and selfless actions. So I ask you to show your appreciation by giving him a round of applause before we depart from each other. Eugene Hunt."

She had barely finished speaking before every child in the crowd was clapping, Alex loudest of all as the huge smile on her face lit it up, Ray whistling and then choking with laughter as Chris tried to copy him and ended up making kissing noises with his lips. William Jamieson was clapping sulkily along, John Carter trying to smile at Gene without William seeing; someone yelled "Speech!", and before Gene could blink the whole ensemble was chanting it, the older kids yelling it to make up for the Year Rs who couldn't quite manage the word and clap at the same time.

"Go on, Gene," Mrs Baker said in his ear, propelling him towards the steps to the podium; Gene hesitated, glancing round at Alex, but one glimpse of the radiant grin on her face gave him the courage to step up and face the crowd, determinedly ignoring the throbbing in his arm from moving around.

"Um. Afternoon."

A chuckle went round his attentive audience; Gene relaxed very slightly. _You can do this. Just channel the Gene Genie charm an' yer'll be fine. _He hurriedly summoned up his usual cocky self, his chest inflating as he faced the crowd head-on, glowing in the centre of their attentions.

"Yeah, 's been good, this trip. Could've gone better, I s'pose. But at least it was exciting." He flicked his sling, earning another ripple of laughter. "An' sleepin' on the floor isn't all it's cracked up ter be, 'specially when there's a man with a gun outside the door, but Alex seemed alright usin' me as a mattress. An' I 'ave the bruises ter prove it."

This time everyone laughed, except Chris, who was busily trying to work out why getting bruises was something to laugh about.

"But bein' in a situation like that made me think. Mostly 'bout death, unsurprisingly. 'S complicated, death, nobody knows what 'appens after it, an' there's loads of theories, but everyone's different. An' I wasn't scared, but I didn't want ter die… loads ter do still."

Not a whisper from the crowd. Every eye was fixated on the little boy on the podium, taking a deep breath as he figured out what to say next, his own gaze glued to Alex's as he took a deep breath.

"But if yer stick up fer yer friends, I learned, yer should be fine. I stuck up fer Alex, an' she stuck up fer me, even though they 'ad the guns an' she was terrified. If everyone 'as everyone else's back, an' sticks up fer what's right, eventually it turns out OK. Well, my arm 'urts, but that's nothin' compared ter being shot in the 'ead like Alex would 'ave been. Everyone reckons I'm an 'ero, but I'm not sure… I just tried ter 'elp. I didn't want 'er ter die. If that's being an 'ero, then OK. The point I'm tryin' ter make is, yer mates are yer mates, an' yer keep 'em close, 'cos one day they might be yer savin' grace, or even take a bullet for yer. Right, Alex?"

"Right!" Alex yelled, her eyes bright with tears and happiness as the children burst into another round of applause, Ray and Brian leaping forwards to tug Gene onto their shoulders for a victory lap of the playground. Mrs Hingston discreetly wiped a tear from her eye, patting a weeping Mrs Baker on the back as the chant of "Hunt, Hunt, Hunt!" filled the cool still air.

"He's quite something. You must be very proud."

Mrs Baker, beyond words, simply nodded, swiping her nose with her handkerchief as Gene's voice rang out above the rest: "Christopher, yer div, let go of me foot, I'll fall ooaarrrggghhh…"

* * *

><p>AN: Just the epilogue to go now! Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me, I will update as soon as I get back (I'm off on holiday now my exams are over). Please, please, _please_ review… and check out my Tumblr if you want, silverliningdarkcloud.

Please save this fanfic for the last time. Thank you, friends of Save the Fanfics.


	9. Chapter 9: Epilogue 1

A/N: Well, aren't you the lucky ones! I have decided, after several hours of thought, to do two epilogues for this story. That's right. Two. You are truly blessed.

This one takes place partially in 1981 and partially in 1987, the latter with a sixteen-year-old Gene and a fourteen-year-old Alex. (I'm good at teenage Gene- I have a 132-page (and growing!) story with him as a teenager, and even I have to admit it's rather good. But no way am I posting it!) So, sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.

PS: Is anyone else getting tickets for This House to see Philip Glenister? I decided I'd quite like to see the show, and then bombshell! So it's my birthday treat :D

* * *

><p>He'd phoned to say he was on the ten-forty train from Manchester, his voice much deeper and older than she remembered. Of course, the last time Alex had seen him he'd been about thirteen, collecting her off the train in the North and whisking her away to his house to spend the weekend; Eileen Hunt had been nothing but hospitable, especially as her husband was away at the time, but that was three years ago now and Alex couldn't deny the nerves in her stomach as the clock drew ever closer to ten-forty.<p>

A faint rumble began about thirty seconds before the time of arrival, a glimmer of sleek train somewhere in the distance; someone made an announcement about the arrival, and Alex leapt up, hurriedly checking her hair only for the train's arrival and the subsequent gale to throw it everywhere once again. Evan would be tutting now, she knew, but she was putting him to the back of her mind, looking forward to a day without Evan, just her and the surly Mancunian boy she felt as though she'd known all her life.

* * *

><p><em>He made it his priority to come down to London as soon as he heard the news, turning up on Evan's doorstep only to be bowled over by a sobbing Alex, her cheeks red and swollen, the rosebud lips so used to smiling chapped and bloodied with her constant crying and gnawing. Evan had been at something of a loss, trying to deal with his own emotions and help his goddaughter at the same time, and Gene's arrival was a blessing all round.<em>

_ "Alex- Bolly, I'm so sorry," he whispered as she clung to him on the front step, rubbing her arms gently, all but picking her up and carrying her back into the house and up the stairs to the bathroom, nodding at Evan on his way up. Evan, sensing a master in the offing, retreated to the lounge to pour himself a large scotch._

_ "Shh now, shh now," Gene murmured, carefully depositing Alex on the edge of the bathtub whilst he foraged for a flannel, running it under the cold tap and lifting her head to gently clean her face, his other hand rubbing her back as she gasped and wailed, clinging to him like a drowning woman. "It's OK now, it's OK. I'm 'ere."_

_ "It'll never be OK again," Alex shrieked, burying her face in his shirt; Gene instead pressed the flannel to her forehead, letting it cool her burning flesh as she screamed into his clothing, panting and whooping in air, the tears soaking the fabric within seconds._

_ "I know, I know. I know. Shh."_

_ "You don't know, you've still got both your parents," Alex sobbed, glancing up at him through soaking eyelashes; Gene fought back the urge to remind her about his bastard of a father, instead tracing gentle patterns over her back until she managed to calm a little, only the occasional tear running down her cheek._

_ "Tell me some swear words. Some really good ones."_

_ Well, that was unexpected. Gene raised his eyebrows, depositing the flannel in the tub with a frown._

_ "Why?"_

_ "Because I'm really, really angry, but I don't know how to express it. Please, Gene."_

_ The raw desperation in her voice made his chest ache. Gene sighed under his breath, perching on the bathtub beside her, his arm round her trembling shoulders._

_ "Um… fuck, bugger, shit, wanker, piss, crap, bloody, arse… that enough?"_

_ He kept his voice as low as he could, worried about Evan hearing them; Alex sniffed, lifting her head a little._

_ "What do they mean?"_

_ "Yer don't need ter know, Bolly. Just… they're rude words, OK? Really rude. Don't ever say 'em in front of Evan, 'cos 'e'll figure out it was me an' stop yer talkin' with me."_

_ "OK. Fuck, shit, wanker, arse… what were the… Gene, why are you laughing?"_

_ For a boy brought up on a diet of Mancunian obscenities, hearing Alex's cut-glass voice murmuring the rudest words he could think of was hilarious; Gene hurriedly clapped his hand over his mouth, wincing as his shoulder twinged with pain, an occasional reminder of the shooting now two long years ago._

_ "Does your shoulder hurt?" Alex abandoned her swearing for a second, her fingers resting lightly on his arm; Gene shrugged, pulling at his shirt to reveal the scars over his bicep, one long and straight, one small and circular. Alex winced._

_ "Not so much now. 'Urt fer ages when it first 'appened, but it's just sore sometimes now. Mam says it probably won't ever fully 'eal, but that's alright, better than you being shot."_

_ "I wish I had been now," Alex said miserably, staring at the floor. Gene stiffened beside her, hurriedly pulling the arm of his shirt down, pulling her closer towards him for her to bury her head in his chest once again._

_ "Don't ever say that, Alex. Yer parents wouldn't 'ave wanted that, would they?"_

_ "But then we'd be all together, wouldn't we? If I'd died as well. I'd still have my mummy and daddy… we'd all still be together…"_

_ "An' you'd be dead an' that would be it," Gene said firmly, sliding off the edge of the bathtub to crouch in front of her. "You wouldn't 'ave yer life ter live, yer future ter see, would yer? I thought yer wanted ter go ter university an' stuff?"_

_ "I do," Alex sniffed, wiping her eyes hard, blinking the tears away to see the sincerity in Gene's blue irises. "I do."_

_ "An' yer will, yer smart. Really smart. Someone'll be proud of yer one day, an' I might be one of 'em, but only if yer stop this nonsense. OK?"_

_ That little speech, said with such conviction it almost trembled, infused her with a burning confidence in herself, one that would remain with her throughout the rest of her life._

* * *

><p>The first thing she noticed was that he was much taller, a good five foot nine, skinny and broad-shouldered. His blond hair nearly blinded him as he stepped from the train, one roughened hand sweeping it back onto his head as two bright blue eyes scanned the platform for her, the other holding a battered suitcase covered in masking tape.<p>

Alex flew down the platform towards him, just giving him time to drop his suitcase before she was in his arms, hugging him so hard round the midriff he had to catch his breath.

"Ow… ow, Alex!"

"I'm sorry," Alex gasped, swiping furiously at the single tear that now trailed down her cheek. "I just really needed a hug."

"Yer can tell me about it over a cuppa. There must be a decent café somewhere in the South."

"Cheeky bastard!"

Alex hit him on the chest, her attempt at a glare failing when Gene tipped her a wink, picking his suitcase up again and foraging in his pocket for a small something.

"Oh, erm, I got yer a little present… Uncle Graham gave me some money fer my birthday an'… I'll give it ter yer when we're sittin' down."

"Oh, Gene, you shouldn't have! It's a good thing I got you something too, then," Alex gasped, snatching her handbag up from her side and glaring at a young man skulking by. "Come on, the train fumes are suffocating me."

Gene snorted. "They use 'em as air fresheners in Manchester. If yer insist, Lady Bolls."

"Are you ever going to stop calling me after a brand of champagne?"

"Not if I 'ave anythin' ter do with it. Come on then."

Alex half expected Gene to be like the young child she'd first met when they stepped out onto the London streets, craning round to see everything he could as she led him towards her favourite café, but she was surprised; Gene barely looked at anything other than where he was going, his head slightly bowed, eyes darting round suspiciously, flinching away from anyone who walked too close to them. He had a new coat, she noticed, a thick black affair that hung almost to his knees, giving him an almost sinister quality as he stalked along the busy London streets, glaring round at any unfortunate creature who happened to be in his way.

"Here," she told him, taking his arm to pull him towards the small café she and Evan frequented, smiling at the waitress as she tugged Gene through the door and towards a table. Gene looked round, shrugging beneath the thick coat and dropping his suitcase on the floor beneath the table as the waitress bustled over, displaying a nicotine-stained smile to the two teenagers.

"Alex, sweetie, how nice to see you again! Tell Evan I said hi," she croaked, wielding her pen and pad as she swooped to see who the interloper was. "And this would be…"

"Gene Hunt. Fresh off the train from Manchester." Gene proferred his hand, the corner of his lip quirking up as the waitress eagerly took it, her fingers lingering on his for a second longer than strictly necessary. Alex cleared her throat, glaring daggers at Gene under her fringe as she handed him the menu.

"I'll be having tea, please. Black, no sugar. Gene?"

"Tea, milk, two sugars, ta." Gene didn't even bother looking at the menu, tucking it back into the table stand and foraging in the pocket of his coat. "Don't mind if I 'ave a fag, do yer, love?"

The waitress shook her head, but the splutter that came from the other side of the table was enough to assure Gene that his company was less than impressed.

"You _smoke,_ Gene? Why don't you just shoot yourself in the lungs whilst you're at it? You'd kill yourself a lot quicker if you did that!"

The waitress glared, flouncing away in a flurry of black skirt; Gene rolled his eyes, pulling a cigarette and lighter out from the inside pocket of his coat.

"Relax, Bolly. It's just a ruddy cigarette."

"Filled with poison, Gene. Don't you know what's in those things? Nicotine kills your lungs, tar causes cancer, not to mention the clogged arteries, the stinking breath, the-"

"Fine, fine," Gene interrupted hastily, stowing his things away again. "I won't smoke in front of yer, then. It can't be that bad, Bolls, everyone smokes."

"Yes, and everyone dies too. Please, Gene."

Gene was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the waitress and his tea, hurriedly swirling it round with the teaspoon to occupy his hands; Alex cupped hers in her fingers, watching Gene as she blew some of the steam away from her mug.

Something had changed about Gene, something was very different to the thirteen-year-old she'd last seen waving her off the train in Manchester. More change than his age and his disgusting new habit could account for. There was something almost world-weary to him, and yet something determined, in the way he glared from under his long fringe and tapped the Formica table with the very tips of his fingers; he seemed comfortable and yet distracted at the same time, his eyes glancing round the café and coming back to land on hers, hunched over his mug of tea.

"You alright? Yer not daydreamin' again?"

"No. Are you… has something happened?"

"Should've known a psychiatrist would think there was somethin' wrong," he smirked at her, pointing his teaspoon at her head. Alex rolled her eyes.

"Psychologist."

"Yeah, yeah. 'Scuse me."

He slid off his stool with an almost leonine movement, leaning back as he slid his coat from his broad shoulders, revealing a slightly tight shirt and dark jeans to the world; Alex couldn't help letting her eyes rove over his body, lingering on the waistband of his jeans, just low enough to hint at the delights beneath. _Alex! This is Gene. He wouldn't think of you like that._

_ Would he?_

Gene slung the coat over the back of his stool, plumping back down with a loud sigh; Alex took a demure sip of tea, glancing up at him through her eyelashes, unable to keep the smile off her face when he snorted with laughter.

"It's OK, Bolly. I know yer posh. Yer don't need ter tell me."

"And you, Master Hunt, have gone off subject." Alex waved her own teaspoon at him, her eyebrows raised as Gene immediately looked down, studying his mug intently. "Come on, Gene. I've known you for eight years now. I know when there's something wrong."

His eyes flicked up at her, briefly studying her features before focusing on her eyes, swerving away at the sight of the determination in them. Alex reached across the table to him, but he flinched away, bowing his head even further to stare wordlessly at his lap.

"Gene, you're scaring me now. Has your dad said you're not allowed to see me? Or your mum?"

"Dad 'asn't said anythin'. Yer know Mam loves yer."

Gene kept his eyes lowered, but one hand snuck back onto the table, letting her place hers over it and worm her thumb underneath to stroke his palm.

"Dad came 'ome from the pub sayin' 'e felt ill… decided it was Mam's fault, an' mine, 'cos one of us must 'ave poisoned 'is dinner. Started beatin' us." One hand drew his sleeve back to show a bandage round his forearm, bruising showing round the edges; Alex winced, but Gene, his eyes still fixed on his thighs, didn't notice.

"'E was just about ter start on Mam when somethin' 'appened. Grabbed 'is chest, fell ter the floor, screamed fer us ter 'elp 'im… an' then 'e just went still. 'E'd 'ad an 'eart attack. We called an ambulance, but by the time they got there 'e was long dead. They took me instead, 'e'd broken my arm. Lovely little parting gift."

He sniffed, his hand clenching into a fist on the table underneath Alex's fingers, reluctantly glancing up and straight back down again as he saw the sympathy written all over Alex's face.

"Oh, Gene…"

_Words won't cut this one,_ she thought with remarkable wisdom for a fourteen-year-old. Instead, she rounded the table and enveloped him in a hug, ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons and the glares of the waitress, squeezing him until he gave in and patted her gently on the back, pressing his chin to her shoulder for a second before gently pushing her away.

"Alright, Bolly. Yer a bit young fer me yet."

She laughed, shaking her head at him as she reclaimed her seat and drained her mug of tea, new-found tact telling her it was best to move the subject back to their usual banter for now. Catching that they were done, the waitress trotted over, dropping the bill in front of Gene; Alex instantly ferreted in her bag for her purse, Evan having given her five pounds to spend, but Gene forestalled her, pulling some coins out and counting them out into the waitress' hand.

"That cover it?"

"Certainly. Thank you, Mr Hunt."

"Geeeene!" Alex wailed as soon as she'd moved away, smacking his shoulder lightly as he slid off his stool and collected his coat. Gene raised his eyebrows at her, a tiny grin on his lips.

"Now now, Bolly. If I let a bird pay fer me drinks, I'd never 'ear the end of it from Mam. Saving my own arse 'ere, yer know."

"Yes, because I bet it's been in popular demand," she teased, slinging her own coat on as Gene moved towards the door, nodding one last goodbye to the waitress as he stepped outside and held the door open for her. As they fell into line beside each other, heading down the street towards the bus stop, Alex was surprised to see the hints of a blush on Gene's cheeks, colouring his pale skin nicely.

"Well, erm, not without company, let's say that much, Bolly."

"What, you've- done it?"

Gene smirked, perching on a seat at the bus stop and sliding his suitcase underneath it, patting the bench beside him for Alex to sit down on.

"Loads of times. All the girls want a piece o' the Gene Genie."

Alex took her seat, keeping her face turned carefully away from Gene as she slid down beside him, her fingers clenched tightly on her little handbag. The idea of Gene being with another girl, especially being _intimate_ with her, was more uncomfortable than she would ever care to admit; she wanted to brand him as hers somehow, ward the faceless Mancunian girls away from _her _Gene, but how she would do that she had no idea and so she resigned herself to twisting her handbag strap in both hands, imagining it to be the mystery girlfriend's neck as Gene hummed under his breath behind her, completely relaxed, long legs stretched out lazily in front of him as the afternoon sun lit his thick blond mane up like a halo.

Did she kiss him? Did she run her hands over that broad chest, down the smooth stomach to- to that area… and what about him? Did he kiss back, one hand on her chest as the other played with her body, a musician with his highly-tuned instrument, silver tongue doing unspeakable things to her as she writhed in pleasure, an intruder into Alex's fantasies she wanted nothing more than to strangle…

"How many, Gene?"

The words came out much sharper than she'd intended, almost accusatory. Gene nearly fell off his chair in shock.

"Don't tell me yer a Christian. I get enough o' that from Mam, tellin' me promiscuity is a sin an' I'll burn in 'ell fer it."

"No, I'm not a Christian… though Evan is. I just… do you know what you're doing with them? They're not using you, are they?"

"Using me? Christ, Bolls, the poor cows prostrate themselves at my feet. 'S just a bit o' fun… 'sides, I know most of 'em. I check 'ow old they are, a day under sixteen an' no thanks. Why, you jealous?"

_Of course I am. I want you to myself, always have done and always will do, _Alex wanted to scream. Instead she said, "Evan warned me about stuff like STDs, that's all. Told me I shouldn't do it until I was eighteen, and then use protection until I was married."

"Yeah, well, Evan isn't a saint, is 'e? Yer told me about the ladyfriends."

"They were just work colleagues, coming to see how he was because he had to stay at home with me…" Alex's voice trailed off unconvincingly; Gene snorted, shaking his head, an errant lock of blond hair swaying into his eyes.

"Yeah right. You know as well as I do that they were shaggin' 'im. Look, Bolly, adults always lie, they promise yer the world an' then they deliver the square root o' Jack Shit. It doesn't make 'im a bad person, 'avin' a few birds around, does it? Just doesn't make 'im perfect either."

"You can trust some adults. Like… like your mum."

"Mam always lies ter me an' Stu, pretendin' everything's OK when it isn't. She didn't tell me they operated on my arm fer a day after Dad broke it. Said she didn't want me ter react badly ter it so soon after Dad's death, but it was really so I wouldn't make a fuss about them sendin' me 'ome so early. I was earnin' the money by that point, Dad got fired fer drunkenness so I 'ad ter run errands an' stuff, she wanted me back doin' that as soon as."

He hurriedly stood up as the bus conveniently arrived, picking something off his shirt silently; Alex watched him wordlessly, a single tear blurring her eye at the insight into Gene's chaotic, painful world. _Do you realise, Gene, how cruel life has been to you?_

As they got onto the bus, Alex slid her hand into Gene's and squeezed hard, hiding it in the folds of his coat as she pulled him over to a seat, keeping it there for the entire journey.

* * *

><p>"It's not so bad. Not 'avin' a dad. I mean, you'd know all about it, but… it's better than I thought it would be."<p>

"I suppose it was easier for me than it would be for most children, because I had Evan and we didn't want for money. I'm not saying you're poor, just…"

"We're poor. I know that. Yer don't need ter sugar-coat it, Bolls, we can barely make ends meet even with one less mouth ter feed an' up until I was ten Mam 'ad me stealin' from the corner shop ter get somethin' ter eat every Saturday."

They were sat in Alex's bedroom, only one dim bedside lamp illuminating the room, Evan's snores echoing from the room down the hallway, cross-legged and toe to toe on the floor. Gene was stretched back lazily, slightly swamped in large navy blue pyjamas Alex suspected might have been cast-offs from someone else; she had opted for her slightly shorter nightgown and prettiest baby pink knickers, the hem of the nightgown just short enough to give him the occasional glimpse of knicker when she moved around. They'd been talking for hours now, sat mirroring each other on the plush carpet with crisps, cocktail sausages and a bottle of Coke within easy reach.

"You're not that poor, Gene, or you wouldn't be able to afford your house. Maybe you should suggest moving somewhere smaller to your mum?"

"Bolly, our 'ouse is only just big enough fer the three of us as it is. Anywhere smaller an' we'd be sleepin' on top of each other. Be impossible fer me ter sneak the ladies back."

Alex's face darkened, the unfortunate cocktail sausage held between her fingers splitting under the sudden pressure; Gene's eyebrows drew together, one finger tapping the carpet as he filed her reaction away with the one from earlier, a detective in training already.

"Look, Bolly, I don't shag _that _many girls. Just enough ter 'ave some fun, yeah? It's nothin' serious. It's not like I introduce them ter my mam or anythin'. Yer know the phrase wham bam, thank you ma'am? It's like that."

"I know a phrase for that too. _Easy._ You or them."

Gene flinched.

"Easy? It's not everyone I let see the crown jewels. Yer think I'm some kind of tart?"

"Yes, if you're sleeping with every girl who asks."

"Well, I don't." Gene's petulant voice transported him back to his eight-year-old self for a split second; Alex almost forgot she was annoyed with him, but at the sight of his pout, no less adorable for the aging, the irritation returned in force. She didn't want him sleeping with the girls in Manchester- if she was being utterly honest with herself, as she had decided to be, she wanted him to sleep with her, but not only would she be breaking the law, Gene would flat-out refuse, and probably cut off contact with her into the bargain. She wasn't going to ruin their precious friendship for the sake of a punt at losing her virginity.

"Bet you do," she teased, flicking a crisp at him, hurriedly returning the tone of the conversation to banter; Gene rolled his eyes, picking the crisp up from his thigh and tossing it into his mouth.

"You do, do yer?"

"Yeah. I want five names."

"Christine Baker, Karen Rogers, Lisa Mackenzie, Theresa Lyons, Kathy Gregory… alright? An' fer the record, everyone's slept with Kathy Gregory. They reckon she's one o' them nymph thingys."

"Nymphomaniac. You sure you're not one, Gene? The list sounds pretty impressive…"

She ducked hurriedly as Gene threw a pillow at her, shrieking and clamping her hand over her mouth as he lunged at her and started tickling her feet.

"You'll pay fer that!"

"Gene- Gene, you know I'm- GENE! AH!"

* * *

><p><em>She is eight years old once again, walking after her parents, the red plastic ribbon in her hand warm and sharp against her skin. The balloon bobbing alongside her seems to shine in the strong sunlight, stood proudly by her side as her mother holds onto her hand and her father unlocks the car in front of them, a blue Ford Alex is sure she's seen somewhere before but can't quite place. Maybe Uncle Angus?<em>

_ She accidentally reaches out with her balloon hand; the balloon slips through her fingers and floats away before she can grab at it again. She is ushered into the car regardless, her mother firmly telling her to leave it as the door closes and the car starts up, sputtering into life beneath her. Alex cranes round to watch it, the car rumbling beneath her, David Bowie crooning softly somewhere, a long, long way away._

_ And suddenly she's out of the car, swerving round to look at her family for the last time, her mother calling to her as she leans out of the window._

_ But it's not just them this time._

_ Gene sitting in the back seat, craning out towards her, his right arm bandaged and his eyes dull and morose. He opens his mouth to whisper, and the wind goes still for a long second as his mouth forms the words that have haunted her life since that dark, dark day in 1981._

_ "I'm happy, hope you're happy too…"_

_ BANG._

_ The fireball-_

_ The heat on her face-_

_ The smell of burning flesh on the air._

_ And this time, nobody is coming towards her, no black knight upon a shining steed to carry her away to the checkerboard office where she is safe. She stands alone, her life burning along with three of the people she loves the most, the red balloon sailing away, as though it cannot bear to be near her, be touched by her black, cursed hands…_

_ "NOOO!"_

"NOOO!"

"Alex? Alex, it's OK, I've got yer- Alex? Wake up, Alex, it's just a dream!"

And suddenly there were arms wrapped round her, firm and strong beneath her body, and Gene was there, sixteen-year-old Gene, the shoulder of the pyjama top down by his arm, showing the pale scars from the shooting. His hands were rubbing her back, easing her out of the bed and into his with him, gently soothing her as the tears bit into her eyes and she let them fall, powerless to stop them.

"Gene… G-Gene…"

"I know."

She curled into him, only realising her nightgown had ridden up around her hips when her skin brushed the rough fabric of his pyjamas; she moved to pull it down, stammering an apology through her tears, but Gene got there first, his eyes remaining firmly on her face as his hands gently and chastely pulled her nightgown down over her thighs, keeping her in his lap all the while.

"Hey, it's OK. Drink this."

A cup of lukewarm water was held to her lips, tipped gently into them; she gulped it down, tears dribbling down her cheeks, a soft thumb swiping them away as they reached her chin.

"Gene?"

"Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare."

His voice was so low, so soothing, that for a second Alex could believe him, could rest her head against his chest and breathe in his musky smell, held for a second in a never-never world where her parents were downstairs chatting and Evan was only a phone call away, Gene an anchor for her battered heart as she cuddled into him unashamedly and let her tears soak into his shirt, the flow gently ceasing.

"OK now?" Gene whispered into her hair, squeezing her gently, the bandage on his arm brushing against her side. She nodded gently, lifting her head to look him in the eyes, the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains showing up the silver flecks in his irises.

She couldn't remember trusting anyone more.

"Alex?"

The door squeaked open, Alex leaping off Gene's lap instantly; Evan's sleep-roughened face peered round at her, eyes flicking between her and Gene, narrowing as they rested on the latter, the front of his shirt visibly damp.

"I had a nightmare, Evan… Gene was comforting me. I woke him up."

Evan blinked, stepping inside; Gene stood up too, crossing his arms self-consciously over his chest, the bandage horribly obvious beside the battered pyjamas. Alex moved over to stand next to him, silently allying herself with him, daring Evan to attack the two of them as she stood her friend's sole bodyguard.

Her godfather looked between them, smiled, and ducked out of the room with a quiet "goodnight".

Something firmly told him that Alex was in safe hands.

He was not to know, but Alex would be in those same safe hands for many years to come, the bond between them subtly changing and only strengthening for doing so as the shit in life attacked them together and they stood shoulder to shoulder to fight it, Gene and Bolly, unbreakable.

* * *

><p>Stay tuned for Epilogue Two… Remember to review, Save the Fanfics continues its work encouraging readers to keep up the good work (or review, depending on whether you're nice people and review or not).<p> 


	10. Chapter 10: Epilogue 2

_Greater Manchester Police A-Division CID, December 1995_

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. DS Hunt, you must have the worst hangover in the history of hangovers, it's a wonder you made it to work. Fancy some Alka-Seltzer?"

"Yes please, sir," a very pale and bedraggled DS Gene Hunt muttered, gingerly levering himself down onto his chair and pressing his sunglasses closer to his face, glancing up at the lights and quickly looking back down again. Across the room, DC Ray Carling sniggered, waving a blister packet of aspirin in the air and tucking it back in his pocket as DCI Hamish Fox placed a plastic cup of pink liquid on Gene's desk, clapping him on the shoulder and smirking to himself as Gene moaned and clutched his head.

"The hospital let Skelton go in time for you to be picked up, then?"

"They reckoned 'e should just go 'ome an' sleep it off, sir," Gene mumbled, sipping the Alka-Seltzer and wincing as his stomach roiled. "All they did was wave some needles around an' try ter breathalyse 'im with my bloody breathalyser."

"Chris passed out in the foyer, DS Hunt took pity an' paid fer the taxi fer the both of 'em," Ray called from the other side of the room, grinning at Gene as his colleague flinched away from the loud noise. "The missus wasn't too pleased ter see 'im, neither. They were both in a right state."

"Pass on my regards to her, Gene. I understand she's waiting to join the police force?"

"Just until the baby's born. They said July, 'bout the twenty-second."

Gene gulped the last of the Alka-Seltzer down, coughing as he chucked the cup in the bin; the door squeaked open, and a slightly white DI Sam Tyler slowly poked his head round it, grinning at the state of the DS in front of him.

"The Gene Genie couldn't quite 'old 'is drink, then?"

"Least I didn't throw up over the ward sister's shoes," Gene smirked, drawing his sunglasses down an inch to savour Sam's also unpalatable complexion visibly becoming a little greener at his words. "Did yer get the bill fer the dry-cleanin'?"

The sudden downturn of Sam's mouth was enough to assure his audience that he had. The entire office guffawed with laughter, only stopping when both Gene and Sam clutched their heads, groaning with the pain.

"DI Tyler, I'm surprised at you, leading your junior officers astray," DCI Fox chuckled, holding the Alka-Seltzer out to Sam as he passed by on the way to his desk; Sam grabbed it with a mumbled thanks, snatching a plastic cup from Ray as he plumped down at his desk, turning the desk lamp off and glaring at his DC as he leaned over to turn it back on again.

"DC Carling, one inch more light in this room than there absolutely must be an' you'll be singin' like a Bee Gee."

Ray promptly decided to get on with the difficult task of sitting with his feet up on his desk, lighting a cigarette as Sam made a disgusted face and Gene foraged in his pocket for his own fags, his face falling.

_Bloody missus makin' me quit the fags… _He'd been a non-smoker for three years now, but the thought of a fag right now to uncoil his tense muscles made him want to vault over his desk and snatch the entire packet from Ray's hand. DCI Fox held a cigarette up in front of his face, grinning at the look of utter torture on his DS's face.

"Go on, Gene. One fag isn't going to kill you, is it?"

"The missus'll know straight off," Gene muttered in a forlorn voice, eyeing the cigarette as DCI Fox placed it between his lips, lighting up with a teasing smile on his face. "She can smell it a mile off. An' she always bloody knows if I'm 'idin' somethin'."

"And that is why you shouldn't have married a psychologist, young Hunt," DCI Fox grinned, pulling himself to his feet using the corner of Gene's desk and padding over to his office, only pausing to throw a ball of scrunched-up paper at the back of Ray's head and toss a "get on with some bloody work!" across the office at him. Gene rolled his eyes at the DC, pulling his pen from his chest pocket and scrawling his signature on the piece of paperwork in front of him, not even bothering to check what it was about.

It was going to be a long day, but at least he had the delight of being able to slowly drive a hung-over and embarrassed DI Tyler to screaming pitch at his leisure.

* * *

><p><em> The ceremony was in a church to keep Gene's mother and Evan happy, the bells deafening everyone in the vicinity as the classic Audi Quattro Gene had insisted on drew up outside and the groom got out, all but diving for shelter inside the church as DC Ray Carling and PC Chris Skelton ran up and attempted to shower him in confetti, promptly having it confiscated by the recently-promoted DI Tyler. The sky was clear and blue, almost the exact same shade as the tie Gene's mother had given him to wear, having all but forced Gene into the shop to pick it out herself.<em>

_ Alex would be arriving at ten, for the wedding to start at quarter past; Evan would be giving her away. She'd stayed at her godfather's house for the first time in two years last night, in keeping with tradition, and, Gene suspected, to keep herself from shagging him into oblivion and being too tired to fully appreciate their wedding night. Ever since he had introduced her to the pleasures of the bedroom, she had been pouncing on him whenever she could, once calling work and telling them she needed Gene instantly as she had food poisoning only to drag him straight to the bedroom as soon as he set foot inside, brow creased with confusion at how Alex could become ill in such a short space of time._

_ "Genie!"_

_ "Bloody 'ell, Stu, don't do that!" Gene yelped, swerving round to take in his laughing brother and his frowning mother, pointing an accusing finger at him as her other hand clapped Stu gently round the head._

_ "Eugene Hunt, how dare you swear in church!"_

_ "But 'e startled me!"_

_ "You boys never grow up! You just beware, Gene, or I'll be showin' your new wife those baby pictures you tried ter 'ide be'ind the kitchen table-"_

_ "Aw, Mam, you wouldn't!"_

_ "I would, young man. Right, 'and over yer warrant card, I know yer've got it an' I'm not lettin' yer 'ave it durin' the service. This is about you marryin' Alex Price, an' I promised 'er I'd make sure yer couldn't be distracted by anythin' durin' the course of the day. She asked me especially fer the warrant card."_

_ "That's not fair," Gene whinged, lip stuck out petulantly even as he ferreted in his inside pocket and drew his warrant card out, slapping it into his mother's outstretched palm with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Eileen Hunt raised her eyebrows, slotting it into her handbag and elbowing Stu in the ribs as he whistled at a young girl passing by the churchyard, tossing her a careless grin and making her blush furiously and stumble into a rose bush._

_ "Pack that in! You boys, yer all the same. An' you better keep it fer one woman only, Gene, otherwise yer'll lose 'er, you know that fer certain. Alex isn't like the silly little bints yer got used ter shaggin' fer one night only in yer teens, you respect 'er or she'll up sticks an' leave."_

_ "Oh, trust me, Mam. Nobody'll ever be as special as Alex."_

_ Gene's gaze grew vacant, the hard line of his mouth softening into what could almost have passed for a smile on a man more used to happiness; Mrs Hunt dabbed furiously at her eyes, jabbing Stu in the side once again as the young man pretended to vomit._

_ "Don't think I 'aven't seen yer love letters ter Shona Baynton, young man. 'Earts an' flowers galore! Did I tell yer 'e quoted a Shakespeare poem in one of 'em, Gene? What was it- 'shall I compare thee ter a summer's day? Thou art more lovely an' more temperate-'"_

_ "Mam!" Stu yelled, his face as red as Gene's hired Quattro as his mother and brother convulsed with laughter, the tears once again running down Eileen's face as Gene pointed hopelessly at his brother, bent over with mirth._

_ "You- you actually said that ter 'er!"_

_ "Not a word of a lie," Eileen hooted, almost choking as she glanced at the expression of beetroot-coloured horror on her son's face. "Oh, Genie, I ought ter tell 'is teachers, they could mention it in assembly, per'aps-"_

_ "Gene! Gene Hunt! You need to get into position, the bride is arriving in a couple of minutes and the wedding will commence as soon as she arrives!"_

_ "Ahh!" Gene gasped, grabbing at the nearest pew; Eileen moved forwards, hurriedly pulling him into a hug, and though Gene had outgrown Mammy's cuddles and kisses years ago he held her back, closing his eyes tight as Stu moved forwards to make it into a family hug, patting his brother lightly on the back._

_ "Just think, Genie boy, tonight yer'll be married ter the woman of yer dreams, won't yer? Just not if yer be'ave like a twonk around 'er. Keep it cool, collected, an' all that bullshit, eh? Alex might decide she's not goin' through with it if yer tremblin' too 'ard ter put the ruddy ring on 'er finger."_

_ "Oh God, what if she decides- what if she decides she doesn't want it after all?" Gene hissed, pulling away in his panic; Eileen grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently, ignoring Stu slapping himself on the cheek for managing to say the worst thing possible to worsen his brother's nerves._

_ "Eugene Hunt, don't be ridiculous. Alex wouldn't leave yer at the altar fer anythin'. Nothin' at all. She loves you, loves you with all 'er 'eart- she wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't fer you, would she? You're the man she said yes to, 'ell, she turned down the son of a baron ter be with you, didn't she? That posh prick she met on 'er university induction. So you stand by that altar an' look yer usual handsome self, an' everythin'll be fine. Absolutely fine."_

_ "Gene- turn around."_

_ Gene's legs almost gave way beneath him._

_ Eileen kept hold of his elbow, concerned for her son's ability to stand up unaided, as he slowly turned to face the young woman standing in the entrance to the church, looking as radiant as the angels in the stained-glass windows above her head._

_ Her dress was simple, slim, white silk shimmering in the soft light of the church, clinging to each curve and offering a tantalising glimpse of cleavage, a reminder of promises yet to become reality; her hair was gently curled, trailing down her back, eyes softly ringed with black eyeliner and lips luscious with pearly pink lipstick, setting her rouged cheeks glowing. Her hazel-flecked eyes devoured him just as eagerly as his brilliant blue ones did hers, but the moment he focused on them they snapped back to him, her mouth curving into a broad smile at the undisguised hunger on his face._

_ "Alex… I've ended up marryin' the most beautiful woman in the world," he murmured, moving forwards to take her hand, clutching it hard so she couldn't feel his trembling. He didn't notice Evan moving forwards, a tearful smile on his face, nor Eileen and Stu melting away to take their places in the pews; all he could see was his bride's face, the gentle love in her eyes and the beauty that illuminated her like an aura._

_ Gene knew in an instant that he would never forget how Alex Price looked the day he made her his wife, and she made him her husband._

* * *

><p>"Is it going OK? Is she OK? Is the baby alright? How long-"<p>

"For goodness' sake, Mr Hunt, just go through into the delivery room!"

The doctor's sharp voice provided a perfect prelude to the scream of pain coming from the door to his left, echoing through the aseptic hospital air; Gene winced, his hands clenching on one another, nails red and raw with his constant gnawing and peeling.

"I- I don't want ter see all the blood…"

"There's not much blood, Mr Hunt. I think your wife would really appreciate it if you were in there with her. Childbirth is just as scary for her as it is for you, probably more so, as it is her body at risk."

"GEEENE! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD?"

It was all it took for Gene's resolve to stay outside to break, hearing the pure agony in his wife's voice; the doctor had barely had time to react before Gene was running past him into the delivery room, neglecting to even pick his coat up in his desperation to see Alex.

Alex was spread-eagled on the small bed, surrounded by midwives and nurses, gulping lungfuls of gas as though it were the only thing keeping her alive; Gene gently peeled her hand off the side of the bed, turning her head towards him as she squeezed her eyes open to look at him, her mouth curling into a smile for a second before she had to stuff the gas tube back in, whooping another deep breath as Gene's fingers clutched hers tightly.

"Just so yer know, I'm keepin' me eyes up 'ere. Nothin' is goin' ter make me look south."

"You didn't have that bloody problem when you were doing this to me, you bastard!" Alex screeched, her hand clenching on his as another wave of pain ripped through her body. Gene winced, glancing round at the midwives as they exchanged grins, one moving forwards to ease a towel between Alex's legs.

"Your baby's crowning, dear, hopefully not that much longer to go now!" she said in a cheery voice, patting Alex's shoulder as Gene bent to kiss her forehead, smoothing his hand over it to wipe the sheen of sweat away.

"You 'ear that, Alex? Not long now until yer a mother- yer just need ter keep goin', yeah?"

The careful steadiness of his voice managed to keep the nerves out; Alex nodded, opening her eyes again to reach up and caress her husband's cheek, her shaking fingers damp and soft on his flushed skin.

"You don't need to worry, Gene, I'm in safe hands- AHHHH!"

"What? What?" Gene cried, swerving round as Alex's hand crushed his once again; one of the midwives laughed, patting Gene's shoulder maternally as she passed one of her colleagues another towel.

"Don't worry, Mr Hunt, just another contraction. Your baby should be here pretty soon, so don't worry, everything's going according to plan. No sign of any complications or problems, a textbook birth, if you will. Although still painful, right, Mrs Hunt?"

Alex's agonised scream was enough to confirm the last point as one of the midwives pushed the gas back into her patient's mouth, a nurse passing Gene a cloth to mop at Alex's forehead with. He closed his eyes briefly as he pressed the cloth to his wife's sweaty skin, praying to whoever might be listening that everything was alright, Alex would be OK, the baby would be alright, that he would be leaving this hospital a father and a husband and not a widower or a parent bereft of their most precious creation…

A wail rent the air just as Alex relaxed against the bed, the midwife standing between Alex's legs reaching forwards to lift something into the air and wrap it in a towel.

Gene, gasping for breath just as much as his wife lying on the bed, strained to catch his first glimpse of his child, the blood beginning to flow back into his hand as Alex gradually relaxed her hold, still sucking in painkilling gas as quickly as she could.

"It's a girl!"

"A girl," Gene breathed, steadying himself on the bed as the relief made him momentarily light-headed. "A girl, Bolly- we've got a girl! A baby girl!"

"It's a girl?" Alex whispered, struggling upright and ignoring the midwife dabbing at her; Gene gently helped her sit up, propping her up with pillows as the umbilical cord was severed and the baby's second wail sounded in the small room, filling it with life as both new parents' faces broke into broad smiles.

"Here you are," the midwife smiled, leaning forwards to place the baby in Alex's arms, gently pulling the blanket away from the little girl's head to show Gene and Alex their child's face; she was peaceful, a tiny button nose and two huge eyes above a little rosebud mouth, chubby cheeks and a tiny sprinkling of damp hair.

"She's perfect," Alex murmured, lifting a finger to stroke her baby's cheek; Gene slotted an arm behind her, a tiny frown creasing his forehead as he too reached out to his daughter, the tip of his thumb brushing the baby's chin.

"She's… purple."

"Of course she's purple! She's a newborn, newborns sometimes have slightly purple skin when they're born- were you paying attention at _all _in the neonatal classes, Gene?"

"They never said anything about 'em being purple," Gene muttered, his thumb stroking the child's forehead; Alex glanced up at him, her eyebrows pursed, but at the adoring look on his face the anger fell away. _He's worried, that's all. Worried about me and the baby, worried that something's gone wrong, and he can't admit that, so he has to make some stupid remark to get it out._

So instead of yelling at him, she beckoned for him to sit on the side of the bed, gently transferring their daughter into his arms as he perched beside her, easing his hands into position beneath their child as Gene all but gaped at the baby, brilliant blue eyes wide as one little hand wormed its way out from beneath the blanket and wound itself round his finger, barely large enough to grasp the tip of his littlest one.

"She's beautiful," he whispered, leaning his head against Alex's and kissing her cheek as his thumb caressed the little girl's cheek, her downy skin like velvet on his work-worn skin. "Bolly, she's wonderful. She's goin' ter be as beautiful as 'er mother."

Alex beamed, leaning up to press a tired kiss to Gene's chin and take her baby back into her arms, letting Gene draw the blanket up over her as the midwives eased her hospital gown down and covered her legs up, dimming the light in the room to allow Alex some sleep.

"So what do you think? Names wise," Alex said softly, rocking their daughter gently as she snuggled up to Gene, cocooned in his arms. Gene rested his cheek against her head, exhaling into her hair as his finger tickled the baby's nose and she opened her eyes, brilliant blue even in the dim lighting.

"You wanted Molly if it was a girl, didn't yer? Molly Alexandra. She looks like a Molly ter me… Molly Hunt. Molly Hunt, daughter of Bolly Hunt."

"Eugene Hunt, you are incorrigible. Mrs Hingston was right about you all those years ago, you're a bad influence, I should have steered clear of you as soon as I had the chance."

"Oh, too late now, love. The ring's on yer finger an' the bun's just come out o' the oven… bloody 'ell, Bolly, me a father. I never ever thought it."

"You underestimate yourself. This little girl is going to grow up so happy, Gene. _We're _going to be so happy."

Alex paused, looking down at the child in her arms, sinking into the mattress with tiredness even as her eyes shone with utter delight.

"Gene… I want to give her another middle name. But only if it's alright with you."

"Yer know it will. Shoot."

"Molly Alexandra… Caroline."

Gene's lips found their way to Alex's neck, nuzzling up to her ear, over her cheeks, and finally to her lips as he pressed a kiss so gentle to his wife's mouth that a tear trickled down from her eyes.

"If yer want, Bolly. If yer want ter honour yer mother's memory, I 'ave no problem at all with that. None at all."

The smile she gave him could only have been described as glorious.

He waited until Alex had fallen asleep, her head on his shoulder, and then gently took little Molly from her limp arms and cradled her against her mother's chest, humming a lullaby his mother had sung to him so long ago as his daughter slept peacefully and his wife drifted through the slumber of the wondrously happy, the edges of her mouth tipped up even deep in unconsciousness.

"Oh, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, thy mother a lady, both lovely an' bright, the woods an' the glens, from the towers we see, they all are belongin', dear baby, to thee…"

* * *

><p>"Every night, Gene. Every night, for a week. Don't think I haven't noticed. You can't carry on like this, Gene- you're exhausted, you can't even put the cutlery away properly, the knives are in the spoon bracket and I don't even want to know how Molly's cup ended up in the freezer. She misses you, you know. I bloody miss you."<p>

"I'm a DI now, Bolly. I've got ter work or I'll never make DCI in time ter get the post in London." Gene yawned widely, leaning back in his chair to face Alex and rubbing his tired eyes, aching from the glare of his computer screen. "I promised I'd take Molly ter the zoo this weekend, we can catch up then. All of us."

"You're just working yourself out, Gene. DCI Fox as good as said you'd be first choice for the post as it is. You just don't want to think, do you?"

Gene stiffened, the hand sneaking back towards the keyboard clenching into a fist as Alex moved forwards, stroking his hair back from his eyes and turning his head to face her as her other hand saved Gene's Word document and shut the computer down, plunging them both into darkness. Gene dipped his head, staring at his lap.

"You've been like this ever since the funeral, working all hours to get the post you were going to get anyway. Sam really misses you, you used to spend so much time with him. Molly thinks she's done something wrong, that you don't _want _to do things with her-"

"Why would she think that?" Gene stared at Alex wildly, his eyes wide with shock; his wife enveloped him in a hug, rubbing his back as she picked the tumbler of whisky up from the desk and downed it herself, wincing at the sting as it burned its way down her throat.

"You've been avoiding her, haven't you, you silly man? Go on, go and tuck her in, she's just had her bath so she'll be playing and waiting for her story. She asked for you tonight."

Gene faltered, making to stand up and sitting back almost as one movement, reaching towards the computer and snatching his hand back as Alex glared at him.

"You leave this computer alone, Gene Hunt. Go upstairs and read Molly a story and get her off to sleep, and then come back down and we'll talk. OK?"

"I'd rather go ter bed, Bolls… can get up early ter do some work tomorrow mornin' before I 'ead off-"

"That's it. The computer's going in the garage."

Alex pushed him away and onto the floor, unplugging the computer and hauling the tower into her arms before Gene could struggle to his feet, striding forwards to grab at the computer and grunting as Alex snatched it back, the two of them tussling over it until Alex fumbled it and it crashed to the floor, the screen smashing.

"_Now _look!" Gene roared, dropping to his knees to check the tower over; Alex tried to force his hands away, but he yanked his arms out of her grasp, fighting her until she finally stood up, glaring down her nose at him in the gloom of the lounge.

"Fine. You play silly buggers with your precious computer and I'll go and read Molly to sleep, just like I have done for the past two weeks. And don't blame _me _when she thinks her own father doesn't want anything to do with her!"

She stormed towards the doorway, face flushed with anger, hands clenched into fists by her side.

A younger, less experienced Gene Hunt might have let her go. But Gene had learnt from his mistakes with Alex. She was ballsy, perhaps even braver than him in some ways, facing her demons head-on as he shrank away from his, drowning them with alcohol and comfort-food as he had done in his late teens. She wasn't afraid to tell him what she thought of him, and though she rarely sought out confrontation, when it came, she most certainly wasn't shy, screaming until the rafters shook and the couple in the house next door poked their heads round the door to ask them to keep it down as their son was trying to sleep. He hated the icy silences, the locked bedroom door that gave him no choice but to sleep in the spare room or on Molly's futon, the note on the fridge door that said she had gone to work early and that it was his responsibility to get Molly to school on time. He was also cognisant, as a father who refused to let his children's childhood turn out like his, of the effect it had on Molly, who at five years old was almost uncanny in the way she picked up on the tense atmosphere and the cold looks; he had grown up in a silent, strained household, ever aware of the fact that the smallest mistake could lead to all three of them being beaten, always healing from some injury or another, always blaming himself somewhere deep inside. Alex had begun the process of taming his demons, identifying them, classifying them and muzzling them, starting him off on the path to relative happiness, and the idea of that anchor vanishing, even just for the night, made Gene's chest physically ache.

Alex's hand was on the door. Now or never.

"Alex- I'm sorry."

His voice was quiet, his usual confidence shattered like the computer screen lying broken in front of him; he barely even had time to turn around before Alex was holding him, her tears soaking into his hair, pressing his head to her shoulder and holding him close as he eased them both up and over towards the sofa, wiping the tears from her cheeks as they fell, like he had done long ago for the little girl mourning her parents, sitting in her bathroom with her heart in pieces as he taught her all the swear words he could think of in a bid to help her. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him.

"I just- I don't want ter think about it, Bolly… I know she was in pain. An'… I wonder sometimes- if she didn't want me an' Stu there… if she didn't want us ter see 'er weak. I don't know if we did the right thing by stayin' with 'er."

"If she hadn't wanted you there, Gene, she would've said. You know that. She wanted her little boys holding her hand as she died, she wanted some reassurance. She may have been in pain, Gene, but that doesn't mean she wasn't peaceful. It would've disappeared before the- before the very end. I promise, when her eyes closed, she was at peace. Promise."

She didn't need her psychology training to know that Gene wanted to keep his face hidden, so she carried on without raising his head, her hand stroking the soft hair at the nape of his neck as she talked, resting him against her just as he had cushioned her in a dark cellar long ago, supporting and comforting in the oldest way known to man: simple contact.

"She was content to die, she'd had a long life and much of it had been good. She had the two people she loved most in the world with her and that meant she could die a happy woman. They had her on pain relief, didn't they? As much as they could manage. There wouldn't have been much pain. I know you don't want to think about it, nobody would, but it doesn't have to be painful, Gene- think of the happy times, like when she saw you after you saved my life, the first time she held Molly, when she comforted you at our wedding. Yeah? That's the way forward."

Gently shifting around, she eased them both down to lying on the sofa, Gene half on top of her; he tried to protest, hissing that he'd squash her, but she ignored him, holding him in place until he stopped squirming and lay still, reaching up to clasp one of her hands in his as she bent her head to kiss his crown, breathing in the musky smell of aftershave and tangy shampoo and simply _him _that she would never get tired of.

"Tell me about her. A memory you have of her. Anything at all. Tell me."

She felt his body stiffen against hers, his breathing hitch, and for a moment she thought he would refuse, would pull away from her, go upstairs and lock himself in their bedroom to spend the night cold and alone in the too-big bed as she had done too many times previously; but then he gave a long, heavy sigh and raised his head to look at her, his eyes glinting in the moonlight coming in through the open curtains.

"I was… 'bout four, I think. I'd fallen over in the street, grazed my knees an' my 'ands, grit everywhere- an' I'd lost my toy police car, the one I got fer Christmas from my gran. I loved that car so much. Mam picked me up an' took me 'ome, put plasters on my grazes an' promised me she'd get my car back, but I 'ad ter stay inside 'cos it was rainin' an' she didn't want me catchin' cold. She searched fer hours in the rain, an' when she eventually found it an' came back I'd fallen asleep in front of the TV. She took me up ter bed, but I woke up halfway up the stairs… I opened my eyes an' Mam was there, carryin' me, an' she just smiled at me an' dropped my police car on my stomach. I woke Stu up with my squealin', couldn't stop sayin' thank you."

There were tears in Alex's eyes, a wobbly smile on her face as she stroked his cheek, holding him as closely as she could, delighting in the feel of his breathing against her body, the gentle heartbeat thudding through her stomach. Gene barely noticed, far away, his gaze abstract as he opened his mouth to speak again, still holding onto his wife's hand as his sole anchor to the real world, the only reminder that someone was listening, he wasn't alone.

He spoke of the day he and Stu had taught their mother how to bowl with their grandfather's old bowling set, only for her to practise in secret when they were at school and thrash them completely when she challenged them to a game at the weekend. The day she turned up at their school an hour after she'd dropped them off to collect them again, taking them to the park to meet their uncle and spend the day with him instead. The day she took them to a china glazing shop and had mugs made with their names on for them to have their bedtime milk out of, and couldn't help treating them to matching plates and bowls too, even though it meant she had to work for hours doing overtime the next day. The day Gene's father had thrown an empty whisky bottle at him and knocked him out, and his mother had spent the entire night on the floor beside him in hospital, holding his hand, only leaving his side to tell the nurses when his drip feed needed changing or ask for the doctor to change the dressing on her son's head. He spoke of her devotion to her sons, her calm authority and robust sense of humour, her faith and bravery and intelligence and strength in the face of domestic violence, misery, and finally the cancer that had claimed her. By the time he had managed to talk himself out, he was hoarse, shaking with grief even as the dull pain in his chest began to lighten and his wife's touch brought him ever so slightly back to life.

"Daddy?"

They both jumped at the small voice coming from the doorway, light spilling into the lounge as the door squeaked open; Molly stepped into the room, clutching her cuddly toy dog under one arm and her favourite storybook under the other, eyes widening as she saw the look on Gene's face.

"Daddy, are you crying?"

"No. No, petal, I'm not cryin'," Gene said bravely, easing himself up and holding an arm out to his daughter. Molly immediately moved over to join in the cuddle, snuggling up to her mother and resting her head against her father's arm, watching him with eyes so gentle Gene's throat closed up and he had to turn away to prevent her seeing the single tear that snaked down his cheek.

"We'll 'ave a cuddle 'ere fer five minutes, an' then we'll go upstairs an' I'll read ter yer. OK, petal?"

"OK, Daddy," Molly yawned, curling up and cuddling her toy dog, closing her eyes as her mother started stroking her hair. A second small head poked round the door, thumb in mouth, and Alex craned round to smile at her young son, holding her hand out to beckon him onto the sofa as well and squeeze him into his parents' embrace.

Within two minutes they were all fast asleep.

* * *

><p>He had been here for two days straight now, refusing to leave his friend's side, sleeping on a cot next to his hospital bed, only emerging into the city for quick forays to Gregg's for food or HMV for the odd 80s rock CD to put on his sound system he'd brought in specially from home. Most of them he was sure the family had somewhere anyway, Alex was no shrinking violet when it came to music, but she had enough on her mind as it was and he didn't want to load any extra burdens on her.<p>

DI Hansen had caught the culprit a day later, accompanying him to the cells of Bethnal Green CID as each and every police officer there stared on with pure loathing in their eyes. He'd felt out of place there, a Mancunian copper in the strange world of the Met, but Alex had explained that he was a friend of the family and nobody seemed to mind him cluttering up the place occasionally.

The investigation would be going to court soon; it had been a careless crime, the blood-stained weapon barely even hidden beneath a scrubby bush only a few yards away from where the victim had been found. He'd practically confessed in interview, attempting to strangle the officer in charge of the investigation and completely undermining his own alibi by claiming he was watching a programme shown two days earlier. It was just a waiting game now, to see whether the surgeons' efforts had been enough. Waiting and praying.

The doctor's report had been so clinical, cold even. _Coma, severe trauma, internal bleeding, uncertain prognosis. _Only one thing had been for sure: the smallest problem could be it, could end the life of the father and husband sleeping peacefully in the small white room, surrounded by people who loved him but unable to even squeeze his wife's hand. His daughter would cup his hand instead, tell her mother to close her eyes and squeeze his fingers so that the poor woman could kid herself that it was him instead, and that when she opened her eyes his would be staring back at her, his mouth curved in that teasing half-smile that they all loved so much.

Sighing, Sam stood, walking over to the bed as the CD finished and the whirr of the sound system died away. The green plastic chair by the bed held a couple of cardigans, Molly's Nintendo DS, his younger namesake's PSP; he scooped them up, placing them on the bag Alex had brought in and sitting down wearily, reaching out to touch his friend's arm, brushing a drip feed out of the way.

"Can't yer wake up? Yer missin' so much… been three days now. The doc wanted yer ter rest, but this isn't quite what 'e 'ad in mind, yer daft bastard."

The hiss of the ventilator was his only answer. Sam closed his eyes, his hand clenching on the warm flesh beneath it, thumb brushing against the rough blankets over his friend's midriff.

"Still, least I've got a trip ter London out of it. Don't much like it, but well, some variety… especially after yer left. Barely see yer. You an' the kids, an' Alex… like ruddy strangers. Just the odd e-mail and phone calls when yer got the time. I don't blame yer fer comin' down 'ere, it was a great step in yer career, but… yer left a lot behind, yer know. The GMP 'asn't been the same."

He sniffed, yanking his handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose, levering himself off the chair and padding into the corridor to gel his hands. A doctor headed into the little room, bearing a clipboard and a trolley, and Sam thought it best to stay away for a moment, waiting until the doctor had re-emerged and given him the nod to slip back in and seat himself by the bed again, somewhat glad that the doctor had made the effort to shave his patient.

"Make sure yer presentable fer Alex an' the kids, eh? Remember that stake-out in 1996, I had ter shave you 'cos yer managed ter cut yer 'and on some broken glass catchin' the bastard… didn't want Alex seein' yer unshaven an' covered in blood. I never told yer, but I told the Guv yer'd lost enough blood ter merit a day at 'ome so you could spend it in bed with Alex an' Molly."

Sam gently lifted his friend's hand, turning it over to run his fingers over the deep scars on the palm, bright white against the hot red skin.

"An' when yer stayed with me fer the night once an' I lost my tie, my best tie kept specially fer a meetin' with the Super, an' the pair of us turned the place upside down lookin' fer it an' you eventually discovered it under the sofa cushions. It was all crumpled, I was in despair, so you told me ter go an' get ready an' when I came back you'd ironed it ter perfection. Even let me borrow yer aftershave. I was so grateful, I'd spent the 'ole day an' most o' the night preparin' fer the presentation… you fell asleep midway through, I'd exhausted yer gettin' yer ter listen ter it over an' over again until five in the mornin'. I felt so guilty."

He chuckled to himself, gently placing the hand back down on the starched sheets and easing the bandage over the cannula back into place.

"Yer need ter wake up in time fer yer weddin' anniversary, eh? An' bloody 'ell, if yer decide that's the day ter pop yer clogs, I will never forgive yer. Soon as I'm behind those pearly gates with yer yer'll 'ave my right 'ook ter contend with… assumin' we both go ter 'eaven. I will, I'm a nice person- not sure about you. With the tales yer mam told me up in Manchester…"

The faintest of smiles flickered over the sleeping man's face.

"Can yer 'ear me? Yer can 'ear me…" Sam breathed, carefully placing his hand on his friend's shoulder, shaking gently as he watched him breathing softly on, the ECG monitor bleeping an increase in his pulse. "Come on, mate. Come on. Make or break time?"

_Please,_ he begged silently, his heart in his mouth as he watched for any meagre movement, any hint of life. _Please come back ter us. I don't think Alex would survive if you didn't make it. Yer kids… come back fer yer kids. Please._

But as hard as he willed it, as desperately as he wanted it, as tightly as his teeth clenched in determination that his friend would hear him, nothing more came. Sam could only watch as he sank into obliviousness once again, his pulse slowing, completely still beneath the glaring lights as Sam stared helplessly, angrily brushing away the single tear threatening to slide down his cheek. He had to stay strong. He had to, because if he didn't, who would?

"Any change?"

He tucked the sheets round his friend's stomach before he turned, wanting him to be presentable, even if not awake. A small hand tucked itself into his and he pulled the young girl towards him, hugging her from behind as she gazed down at her father, tears tumbling onto her pink top even as her lips thinned with stony-faced determination.

"It's OK, Molly. 'E smiled at me not a minute ago."

"Did he?" Alex whispered, bending slowly to ease herself onto the plastic seat and taking her husband's hand, stroking his arm up to the elbow as her chin wobbled ever so slightly. "I bet he did. You're strong, right, darling? You'll show the doctors. You will. I _know _you will."

She leaned down to press a kiss to his open mouth, her lips brushing ventilator tube and cool skin, a single tear splashing onto his cheek as she sat back up, staring down at the bed as though it contained her whole world. Which, she knew, could easily be true.

Her hand travelled up to press itself to his forehead, his scruffy hair rough and his pale skin soft against her fingers, a perfect duet, just as her husband was.

Molly and Sam moved closer, Sam reaching out to touch his father's shoulder and Molly taking his hand as Alex smiled sorrowfully down at him, eyes bright with love and tears.

"Gene, my darling, I know you'll come home to us soon. We miss you, all of us do, we want you back, and don't worry, we're surviving. We'll survive until you come back to us. But until then- I hope you're happy."

* * *

><p>AN: Goodbye, Youngsters. *sad face* You will be missed!

Yes, this one got very long- and I've cut scenes from it, believe it or not! I just so wanted to prolong writing it a little. So please, please remember to review my longest chapter ever, and be nice to me.

Auf Wiedersehen, jungen Gene und Alex… (Goodbye, young Gene and Alex…) Jazzola :D


	11. Chapter 11: Epilogue 3

The only blessing Gene could see in his situation was that, however much comfort food he crammed in to dry and dull the ache in his chest, he never seemed to get fatter. He had to run his own house, although that didn't take much, and police training to attend, but in his spare time- of which, admittedly, there wasn't a lot- he would slump in front of the telly and tune into whatever rubbish the BBC was broadcasting, stuffing himself with sweets and chocolate and pastries and bacon sandwiches until his stomach was groaning with the strain and the food was making an unwelcome re-appearance at the back of his throat. Several times he'd made himself sick with the sheer volume of food, but it was only when his mouth was full that he could somewhat blank his mind from the sheer pain of day to day existence.

He found himself lonely and isolated a lot of the time, shunned by the middle-class trainees in the police training college and whispered about by the working-class ones, flinching away from rumours about his father round every corner. Stephen Hunt might have died four years ago, and two hundred miles away, but his name was known by those who had come with him from Manchester, and seemed to have been reincarnated in London along with all his bitter, twisted spirit. Gene very quickly found he could only escape the mutterings and disapproving looks when he travelled to Oxford on the odd weekend to visit Alex.

_Alex._

The one grain of hope in his life. Apart from his mam and Stu, and he was so busy in London he hardly saw them these days. The one friend- and, he hoped, soon more- who stood by him, who questioned him truthfully on his father, and didn't laugh at his scars in the changing rooms, miming punching them and then running away as he turned to deal the perpetrator a right hook himself. Of course, a few of the boys at the college regarded him with awe, his battle marks only serving to shock them, but for the majority he was taboo; he never felt that in Manchester, and especially not in the flat Alex was renting in Oxford in preparation for her psychology degree beginning this September. He slept on her lounge floor as often as was humanly possible, every second wishing he was in bed with her, loving her, worshipping her body, showing her how much she meant to him, but of course it never happened, his sense of chivalry keeping him at bay and permanently frustrated.

Gene's marks had been good enough to get him into university- straight Bs in the subjects his mother had coerced him into- but as far as he was concerned, university was for poshos and rank-skippers. He wanted to earn his stripes, work his way up the ladder, not spend ages poncing about in a university (probably on his own) and then finally get stuck behind a desk for the rest of his life. He wanted the rough edge of policing, to make a difference. And that was what he was determined to do.

Saturday night found him sinking beer after beer in the local boozer, celebrating on his own to mark the end of his exams. Tomorrow he was heading up to Oxford- one small thing to look forward to- and fairly soon, in only a few short weeks, he would be beginning his new job as a PC in the Greater Manchester Police A-Division. Until then, he just had to get himself as drunk as possible, to try and forget his rampant desire for Alex- and with the rate he was drinking, that wasn't going to take too long, he'd be as half-cut as was sensible by about eleven and then he would find himself a cab home.

Hopefully.

"Dere sometin' troublin' you, mon brav?"

The bartender, an elderly Jamaican with greying dreadlocks dangling around his head and orange-clad shoulders, had sidled up as he daydreamed, toying with his whisky chaser; Gene started, glancing round from under his fringe, blowing up through his pout as the bartender gave him a toothy smile, leaning on the bar in front of him.

"Nah. Not really. Just want ter get drunk."

"Must be a reason, mon brav. An' you all on your own. Makes me feel almost sorry for ya."

Gene's lip curled in contempt, but the moment the bartender slid another whisky chaser over it disappeared.

"On the house… so long as you tell me what's eatin' ya. Alcohol won't fix tings, my friend."

He stopped, and gave a short, sharp bark of laughter that made the gang of laughing middle-aged men sitting nearby swerve round to stare.

"What am I sayin'? I run a pub. Of course it'll fix tings!"

Gene rolled his eyes, picking the whisky up and taking a long swig, letting it burn its way down his throat and wiping his hands wearily over his face. Suddenly he felt so tired he could barely stay upright.

"Everythin', pal. Bloody everythin'. Exhaustin'."

He swayed, overcome by intoxication and fatigue; someone steadied him from behind, someone else muttering about calling a taxi, but when a multitude of hands did slide him off his stool and balance him in something of a standing position, it was a back room he was ushered into rather than a back seat. The bartender slid in after him, waiting until Gene was arranged on an elderly chintz sofa with a bucket by his head to perch next to him and plonk the whisky chaser on a nearby table, smiling indulgently as Gene swiped wearily at it and missed by a country mile.

"Ah ah, mon brav. Talk first, den whisky."

Gene scrunched up his eyes against the bright overhead light, regarding the bartender mistrustfully through an alcohol-fogged gaze; the toothy smile was the only thing he could make out clearly, and the grey-flecked dreadlocks swinging hypnotically around it. It was getting harder to hold onto his stomach contents.

"Just finished police trainin' college. Top marks, but it was a ruddy nightmare. No friends, nobody ter talk ter… just lonely. Didn't fit in. Too different down 'ere."

"Manchester?"

"Mm." Woozy as he was, he was too dopey to wonder how the bartender had known that. "Want ter be a copper… know everyone 'ates 'em, but I just want ter make a difference, make someone's life better."

The bartender cocked his head to one side, his eyes raking Gene's face; under normal circumstances Gene would have lashed out at him for that, but right now lifting his hand seemed too much of an effort and he just about managed a laser-beam glare instead. It only made the man's grin wider.

"You wouldn't be drinkin' like dis if dere wasn't a girl involved, mon brav. I seen too many coppers to be fooled by dem now."

"Alex." The name tumbled from his lips as though it had been lurking there for years, finally set free by the wisdom of the man now perched on the arm of the sofa, watching his young client with sympathetic brown eyes. "Alex Price… so want 'er ter be Alex Hunt… but I don't know 'ow… it's so 'ard."

"Dat you? Hunt?"

"Gene Hunt. She's been my best friend since we were six, an' I want ter make 'er more, but I'm scared she'll reject me, throw me out on me arse…"

"Now you listen to me, mon brav." The bartender was at eye level now, crouched on the mauve carpet, one hand beside Gene's head as he waited until his watery blue eyes were fixed on his to speak.

"You love her very much, dis Alex. She may love you back, an' you just don't know it. You propose to her, you got a life togedder, maybe kids, heaven in a nutshell. But you don't… someone come along an' snatch her, an' bam! Dat it. Dat it over. You lost her forever. So just tell her, mon brav, because women more understandin' dan you tink. I know dis. You tink I never meet people hopelessly in love? You one of many, many, many people. So all I say is, grab de bull by de horns an' just give her de ring. Den she yours. Yours forever."

"Don't 'ave a ring," Gene whispered, tasting bile at the back of his throat as he spoke. "Couldn't."

Couldn't buy one or couldn't propose, he wasn't sure which.

"Den you wait 'ere."

The bartender disappeared as though by magic, vanishing away into the crowded pub in a flick of dreadlocks; Gene rolled onto his stomach, dragging the bucket closer with one clumsy hand, groaning as he mashed his face into the snot-coloured fabric and closed his eyes to try and block out the buzzing of the overhead light.

And then a hand on the back of his head made him look up, and Gene turned and opened his eyes to possibly the most beautiful ring he'd ever seen.

In the centre was a diamond, glittering furiously, luxuriating in its bed of white gold; the design that circled it was Celtic, strong lines weaving through each other to form two clasped hands above the diamond and two beneath it, the base of each hand marked by a small ruby. The band was slim and dainty, effortlessly elegant in contrast to the elaborate styling of the front. In a millisecond he knew it would never be perfect on anyone but Alex.

"You want it, mon brav? If so, it yours. I got no use for it, just found it one night an' it never got claimed. Runnin' a pub makes good money. You need a ring, I got one, it not rocket science."

Leaning down, he unzipped Gene's jacket and slid the ring and its black velvet box into his chest pocket, securing it and patting the fabric over it. Gene's bleary eyes found his, and through the alcohol and the tears of nausea the thankfulness was written loud and clear to be seen, sparkling just as brightly as the diamond now nestled safely in his coat, next to his heart.

Then he dropped his head and vomited noisily into the bucket at the bartender's feet.

"Ah, shit, sorry…" he whispered as he spat out the last of the bile, wiping his mouth shakily on his hand and making to stand up; the bartender eased him back down, smiling softly as Gene weakly submitted, too tired to do anything else.

"Yer alright. I'll call yer a taxi, get yer 'ome safely."

It took Gene until the bartender was at the door to realise that his accent had transformed to Mancunian.

"Wait!"

The bartender turned, grinning expectantly; a hundred questions were suddenly zooming round Gene's head, but in his groggy state only one took precedence, forcing itself out of his mouth almost painfully. "You never told me yer name."

The toothy grin widened, displaying one gold tooth, almost hidden at the back of his mouth. Glinting as he answered, all Gene could focus on.

"You can call me Nelson, pal. Like the freedom fighter."

And then he turned and disappeared into the bustling pub, his orange shirt blending into the masses as Gene let his head fall again and groaned under his breath, wondering abstractly if the bartender would mind him getting some kip here before his eyes slid closed and he passed out.

* * *

><p>It was, therefore, a worse for wear but thoroughly upbeat Gene Hunt that arrived at Alex Price's doorstep the next day, dumping his suitcases by his sides in preparation for the huge hug he knew would be coming and ringing the doorbell with a flickering of trepidation in his sore stomach. Trepidation for the plans he'd laid out for this weekend, for his hopes for the future, and overall for the burning desire he had now admitted to: he loved Alex Price, with every inch of his heart, more than he could ever love anyone else. If something were to go wrong, it would destroy him, and he knew it.<p>

The door banged open.

"GENE! You utter bastard! You're late!"

The name-calling seemed at odds with the massive cuddle he was promptly pulled into, Alex's head tucking itself under his chin as though it belonged there; he wrapped his arms round her, exhaling hard, dropping the faintest of kisses on the top of her head as she drew back to see him, eyes glittering with mirth.

"Who said they were going to tell me which train they were catching so I could be there at the station to help with their luggage?"

"Bolly, I couldn't 'ave asked fer yer ter be waitin' fer me, luggin' all this 'alfway across London. Just be a nuisance fer yer."

"Bullshit. You must be bloody exhausted, and I bet you were out boozing last night, weren't you? What time did you get home?"

"No idea," Gene muttered, dragging his suitcase into Alex's tiny lounge and dropping it in front of the sofa. "Passed out in the boozer, the landlord took pity an' rang me a taxi. Lifted me wallet too, cheeky bastard. Decent bloke, I s'pose, Manchester man."

"Oh, I bet you felt right at home."

Gene's face dropped. Alex's eyes narrowed, clocking the change instantly, both hands reaching out to gently push her companion towards the sofa and their owner descending silently onto the cushions by his side, lying down onto his lap as he started playing with her hair idly, the intimacy sparking in the air between them.

The comfort she felt from this, from being with him, cushioned by his warmth and security, surprised her; had she ever done this with anyone, laid herself so open to them, trusted them this much? Her previous boyfriend hadn't been allowed anywhere near her unless he used contraception, all her valuables locked away long in advance to him entering her flat. Certainly she'd never laid her head in his lap, never allowed him to wind her fringe round his fingers as Gene was doing now, his lips set in that adorable pout and his long eyelashes flickering round, their owner deliberately looking everywhere but her even as his fingertip brushed her forehead and she smiled softly.

"You didn't feel at home at Hendon. Oh, Gene, that's understandable. It takes time to be ready to live independently-"

"It wasn't that," Gene interrupted, lips thinning in annoyance and something that on a weaker man might have been vulnerability. "It was… I was… oh, sod it. I was lonely."

_Lonely._

Alex, stunned into silence, let herself digest Gene's confession, leaning back into his hands as his fingers showed her what his words couldn't, showed her that he trusted her, would let the barriers around his heart down a crack for her. She didn't expect him to bear his soul- the very idea was ludicrous, Gene simply wasn't that kind of person- but these quiet statements were a plea for help in their own right, and she heard them just as loudly as sobbing and screaming would seem from someone else. He was flawed, and damaged, and she loved him all the more for it.

She knew that, had long since confessed that. The very first night she had let Johann clamber on top of her, not without her reservations, she had found herself closing her eyes and imagining it was Gene's long fingers stroking her, Gene's lips pressing against hers, Gene's sandy blond hair brushing her chin as her boyfriend pounded into her, not caring if he hurt her, laughing when she begged him to stop. The moment it hurt, Gene disappeared, sliding into the shadows of the room as reality took over once again; she knew without doubt that Gene would never hurt her.

"Lonely," she murmured, easing herself up to sit next to him, beckoning to her own lap as Gene shifted round, slowly lying back until his head was nestled comfortably on her thighs. "I can understand that. Big city, no friends- but why did you wait until you finished to tell me?"

"You've got enough problems, Bolly. I can't offload 'em all on you."

"My problems amount to how much toilet roll I have to buy and making sure I keep my appointments with my tutors. I still grieve for my parents, Gene, but I've moved on, and I'm not sure you've managed that yet, have you? You wouldn't be human if you didn't have some difficulty. It's only natural, love."

_Love. _The word just slipped out completely on its own, as though it had been waiting in the wings for him, ready to jump as soon as he was near; it astonished her how natural it felt, and even more when Gene opened his eyes and smiled up at her, his hair spread over her jeans and catching the weak morning light from the half-open curtains.

"It just… everyone there 'ad 'eard of 'im, enough people came from Manchester ter ensure that. The posh twats laughed at me, the idiots treated me like some kind o' leper, an' everyone else just kept away from me. Didn't 'ave anyone, Bolls. Didn't know 'alf of 'em, didn't care. 'S why I got so ruddy 'ammered last night, nobody there ter keep an eye on me."

_Except Nelson, _he added silently. Alex stroked his hair back, her fingers gentle on his scalp, and he closed his eyes, shifting gently to get more comfortable on the sofa.

"Just been lonely without any real friends. Bloke's got ter 'ave someone fightin' 'is corner, an'… I didn't 'ave anyone. Felt like it did when I was little, when Dad 'ad knocked Mam out an' was comin' fer me. Ruddy scary."

His voice was quiet, but all the more audible for it, a gentle rumble above the murmur of Oxford outside. Alex could feel her legs beginning to go to sleep, rueing not getting into a better position before he lay down, but she diligently ignored it as she opened her mouth to speak, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as she traced a cut on his cheek.

"That's very brave to admit, Gene. You have to deal with these demons, but they're not invincible, you're a strong man and I'm sure you can do it. I want to help you, and I hope I can, I hope you'll let me be the someone fighting your corner with you."

The tiny smile on Gene's face was enough to confirm that he wasn't particularly averse to the idea of having Alex at his side. Alex beamed along with him, dipping her head to press her lips to the tip of his nose, giggling quietly to herself when a quiet snore told her Gene had fallen asleep using her as a pillow.

Shifting gently so as not to disturb him, Alex reached for the remote control to switch the telly on, one hand idly stroking Gene's hair as she daydreamed on the screen, the world outside almost muted, as though determined to afford them this sliver of peace before they had to return to the bustle and stress of life.

* * *

><p><em>Alex's first experience of boyfriends- and breaking up with them- was not a pleasant one to say the least. She knew in the back of her head he wouldn't take it well, might even try to hurt her when she broke the news; she'd deliberately invited Gene over to be there when it happened, needing both moral and physical support to go through with the big move. Despite her age and her new-found maturity, there was still a bit of Alex that felt like the little girl Amelia Forester had taunted until she was reduced to tears, she could still sometimes hear the mocking voice in the back of her head calling her names, telling her she would never be pretty or popular or have any real friends. She admitted freely to herself now that she needed Gene.<em>

_ Johann had been less than pleased with the request to keep away from Alex, blocking her way out of the dive bar they'd agreed to meet in, tearing at her jacket as she tried to barge past him; Gene had surged forwards to punch him squarely in the nose, kneeing him in the gonads as several punters watched with interest, laughing when Alex delivered her ex a stinging slap to the cheek._

_ Gene snapped when Johann punched Alex in the stomach._

_ His second punch dazed Johann, but the recovery was swift, one hand jerking up to get Gene squarely in the kidneys; Gene kicked out through the pain, not caring when Johann dragged the pair of them to the floor, slamming Johann's head back on the floor as someone yelled for the police and Johann whacked Gene's skull into a table leg, gasping and choking as his opponent managed to wedge his leg into his crotch once again._

_ "Stop it, stop it!" Alex yelled, pulling Gene up, horrified at the stream of blood flowing down from behind his ear; Johann was clearly in a worse state, bent double and gasping for breath, but she paid him no heed, spitting in his face and pulling Gene out of the bar and onto the street. His injuries looked even worse in the dim evening light, one eye blackened and swollen, cradling his wrist as she ushered him into a phone box to call Evan for a pick up._

_ Evan, when he'd arrived, had taken one look at Gene's bloodstained shirt and insisted Gene go straight to hospital, barging through the queue of drunks in A&E to get them looked at first; Evan's reputation was well-known, and within ten minutes the three of them were in a cubicle, a doctor disinfecting and dabbing at the cut on Gene's head as Gene tried not to cry out with the pain, one hand clenched on the bars of the trolley as the other held some ice in place on his swollen eye. Only Alex firmly telling him he needed stitches and he could have concussion was keeping him on the bed, that and the throbbing behind his ear whenever he tried to move._

_ "I'm going to start stitching now, this is going to hurt," the doctor who had arrived the moment Evan's name was mentioned said quietly, clipping Gene's hair back and leaning his patient's head forward; Gene glanced round at the needle in the doctor's blue-gloved hands, flinching away instinctively, the little colour left in his face vanishing as it was threaded and disappeared round the back of his head. Alex moved forwards, wincing in sympathy as the first stitch was administered and Gene growled through his teeth at the sting, gripping the bed bar so hard his knuckles turned white._

_ Alex didn't even think about it, immediately reaching out and taking his hand in both of hers, squeezing hard._

_ The doctor simply smiled to himself, edging over to allow Alex to sit closer to the bed; Evan, watching from the sidelines, carefully kept his expression neutral, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands in his lap, fixing his eyes on his thumbs until the doctor was dressing Gene's head and turning his attention to his wrist._

_ Whenever Alex went near boys, he felt a certain unease, always had done, simply because he knew Alex. She was naïve sometimes, she might not pick up what a boy meant when he said certain things, and after her parents' deaths she was easily upset and even easier to lead on. Johann he had had his reservations about, which had certainly been confirmed now, even if Gene had given as good as he got; normally he would never condone violence, but if the victim was a woman, then in his opinion the bastard deserved all he got. But Gene…_

_ He had asked himself many a time if he thought Gene and Alex's relationship might change, might one day become romantic. After all, Gene was handsome, witty, protective and a damn good friend, and Alex was beautiful, clever, kind and loyal to a fault, especially with him. Gene Hunt might not have been Caroline's idea of the perfect catch for her daughter, nor Tim's, but then they had never troubled to get to know him. Over the years, Evan had gradually built up a picture of him, from visits and tales Alex told: a picture of a damaged young man who valued his friend tremendously, who could be loose with his fists but never without justification, who was kind when nobody was looking and could sympathise with Alex's losses. He would always be there for Alex when he could, but she needed someone else to protect her too, and Gene he knew would do that._

_ He was certain she could have found worse._

_ And so instead of pulling their hands apart, or giving Gene a warning glare, he stood up and moved over to help the doctor with Gene's sling, smiling down at the young man as he first protested that his wrist was fine and then submitted to it. He'd even insisted Gene take the front seat on the way home, chatting idly with him as they trundled home, Alex in the back holding Gene's good hand beside the head-rest._

* * *

><p><em> She was back in the bar again, perched awkwardly on a rickety stool, the electro-funk music whining away in the background; she knew Gene was there, sitting at her elbow as support, but when she turned to ask him to move closer she found herself looking into Johann's eyes instead, narrowed with anger and lust, his teeth half-bared in the threatening grin she had long since learnt meant trouble. At first she stood her ground, determined not to be weak, to make Gene proud of her; but as he advanced on her, it got harder and harder, and she cried out for Gene, swerving round as the music faded away and all she could hear was Johann laughing at her shrieking, insulting her, hissing lecherous jibes in her ear as his arms wrapped around her waist and tugged her away into a dark alleyway. She could feel the tears searing her cheeks now, her throat hoarse from screaming, concentrating on the wetness of her face rather than the roughness of Johann stroking her breasts, hands sliding down to between her legs as she broke, sobbing for him to leave her alone, go away, she didn't want this, please no, no, NO-<em>

_ "GENE!"_

"Bolly?"

He was at her side in an instant, holding her close in his embrace, the sling lying redundant against his chest; enveloped in his comfort, trembling from head to toe with the aftershocks of her nightmare, Alex pressed her head into his chest, sobbing so hard her head hurt, gulping in great lungfuls of his scent as he stroked her hair back and perched on the side of the bed, balancing her against himself.

"Shh, shh," he whispered, rocking her gently as he might a child, pulling the duvet off to let her sweaty body cool slightly. There was far too much leg on show for any red-blooded male to ignore, but he made himself look away, focusing on Alex's head as he wiped her tears away and leaned her back against the pillows, picking up the glass of water from her bedside table and tipping it into her lips until she gave up and drank, his thumb caressing her chin as she forced herself to swallow each mouthful.

"There now. You OK?"

"Yeah… yeah, I think so."

Alex's voice was steady, but her shaking hands still clung to him as though he were her life-ring; Gene eased into bed beside her, one arm round her shoulders to keep her in place beside him, the other tidying her up and swiping the duvet over her tear-soaked face one more time.

"Yer think yer'll be OK now?"

"No," she answered shakily, pulling him closer at the threat of losing him again. "I… I'm sorry for waking you up."

"Shh. 'S nothin'. D'yer… d'yer want me ter, um, ter- sleep in 'ere tonight?"

_Shit. No. Wrong thing. Yer twonk, Hunt, she'll think yer just tryin' ter get in 'er knickers!_

"No, no, ferget it, bad idea, yer know me, never know what ter do. I'll just, er, be, erm-"

He stumbled over his words so adorably that Alex felt the tears rising again, hurriedly interrupting to put him out of his misery.

"If you wouldn't mind, Gene… please?"

The small, pleading voice cut straight through his babbling, the teary hazel-flecked eyes that focused on his more than enough to break his resolve.

He didn't need any further encouragement.

Gene nodded once, wriggling around to settle in beside her and drawing the covers over them both, the model of gentlemanly behaviour as he kept his lower body as far away from hers as possible; she had very different ideas, pulling him in as close as possible, cuddling into him as she closed her eyes once again and slid into a dreamless sleep, kept anchored by his warmth, his presence.

Coming in in the morning to see Alex, Evan found them both in her bed, curled round each other like cats, fully clothed but holding hands once again; the bandage on Gene's head was bloodstained round the back, the bruising around his arm now a nasty shade of blackish-yellow, but he had allowed himself to be crammed into the smaller half of the bed, shivering in the cool morning air to afford Alex the majority of the duvet. Pulling the curtains open and dragging the duvet off Gene's bed to drape over him, Evan left them to it, humming jauntily to himself as he headed downstairs to get them both a cup of tea.

That was the night when both Gene Hunt and Alex Drake realised they were more than just friends.

* * *

><p>"Did yer want ter go out fer a meal tonight, Bolls? My treat, obviously. Saves us 'avin' ter cook."<p>

Gene, the master of keeping hidden, made sure he addressed Alex from behind the kitchen door, busying himself with arranging the apples in the fruit bowl red side out just as Alex liked them; Alex, sprawled over the sofa scribbling a letter to Evan, raised her head at the sound of his voice, a smile blooming on her face as she caught a glimpse of the back of his head around the door.

"Gene Hunt, you know I don't let men treat me. I go halfsies on everything. It's only fair."

"Alex Price, you know I don't let women go 'alfsies on me. My mam would murder me in my sleep."

"Good thing you don't live with her anymore, then," Alex countered swiftly, grinning cheekily at him as he poked his head round the door, pouting petulantly. "I'll only let you treat me if I get to treat you too, Gene. You've been having a shit time of it recently, you need to unwind."

_If only you bloody knew,_ Gene thought, smiling ironically to himself as he ducked away again, pulling the fridge door open and scouting through pots of yoghurt and cheeses to find the Mars bars Alex always got for him right at the back. Every time he so much as brushed against the little velvet box tucked away in his pocket, his heart rate went up tenfold, battering against his chest as the scenario of Alex kicking him in the gonads and spitting in his face ran repeatedly through his head like the Public Information films his mam had always firmly sat him and Stu down to watch.

"The moral of the tale?" she'd always ask, standing there with her hands on her hips as they mumbled "always look both ways before crossin' the road" or "don't play with farm equipment". How they would get the chance to play with farm equipment deep in the Mancunian suburbs, where the closest they got to rural life was the dirt-flecked spuds Mam picked up in the greengrocer's, he'd never known, but she'd made them watch regardless, eyes boring into the backs of their heads as they kept their own glued obediently on the screen, never daring to face her wrath for looking away. He felt exactly like that now, could almost picture Eileen Hunt stood in the doorway glaring at him, daring him to ignore the film and its grim warning.

_The moral of the tale: never aim above yer station, Genie boy. Not unless yer sure she won't refuse._

_ Only one way ter find out._

"What d'yer say then, seven at the Bronze Lion?"

"The Bronze Lion'll be fully booked- oh!"

Gene, living up to his name, had hunted out the best restaurant in this area of Oxford, ringing them as soon as they opened that morning; almost as though it were fate, another customer had literally just rung off cancelling a slot that evening, and Gene had swooped straight in to book it, determined to give Alex the best. He knew it would be expensive, but since he'd agreed to move back in with his mother until his new job started he had a good month's rent to spare- what better way to spend it than treating Alex?

"Sorry, 's why I was late, detoured ter pick up our slip so you could 'ave time fer a bath before we left…" His voice trailed away as he saw the tears in her eyes, a second before she flung herself at him, kissing him full on the mouth.

The kiss lasted for a second, but the impact it had could have topped the Richter Scale.

Gene, shell-shocked, remained frozen in the same position, mouth slightly open, the taste of Alex's lip-gloss still dancing on his tongue; Alex slowly drew back, ducking her head shyly, looking up through her eyelashes to watch him as one tooth nibbled at her lip, a blush rising on her cheeks.

_Bloody hell,_ they thought simultaneously.

"I… erm…" Alex whispered, making to step back; Gene blinked, snapping back to himself, his eyes focusing on hers just as a slow smile curved his face, giving his face a glow that made Alex's heart melt.

Before she could do anything more than draw breath in, Gene had darted forwards to kiss her gently on the lips, gone before she could do anything more than inhale his scent and bask for the briefest of seconds in the tender warmth on her mouth.

"Better tart yerself up. Put yer face on," he teased just as he reached the door to the kitchen, hurriedly ducking round it as a cushion sailed towards him, his laughter echoing round the flat as Alex rolled her eyes, heading for the bathroom with a fond smile on her face.

* * *

><p>"Erm… Bolls."<p>

"Yes, Gene?"

"What's lasag- lasag- lasagner?"

"Lasagne, Gene. It's that. See that table over there? That's lasagne."

"Looks like uncooked pie with its arse 'angin' out," Gene observed languidly as he toyed with the tassel on the edge of his menu, deliberately burying his head back in it to avoid the death glare Alex promptly shot him. Safe in the knowledge that he was utterly inexperienced in the art of fine dining, she'd given him a ten-minute lecture before they left, outlining exactly how she needed him to behave to prevent them both being kicked out; he seemed to be doing alright, managing 'please' and 'thank you' most of the time and keeping his voice too low to be heard by the surrounding tables, but the Gene Genie would not be suppressed even for one night, and she'd been on the receiving end of his sarcastic or derogatory remarks ever since they'd entered.

"Bloody 'ell, someone should seriously think about gettin' 'im some scissors fer Christmas," he'd commented the moment the maître d'hôtel had arrived to seat them, trotting along snootily in front of them as though he were ashamed to be seen with a Northerner. "'Is nose's got more stray hairs than a Russian gymnast."

Alex's elbow in his stomach had dissuaded him from making any further remarks until the maître d' had moved back to his post in front of the door, but he'd kept it up throughout being given the menu and ordering drinks, leaving just long enough between each comment to make Alex think he might have stopped before another one snuck out and brought her hopes crashing down.

In reality, Gene was terrified. Whenever Alex looked away his hand would dart up to check his breast pocket, making sure the ring was still in there; he had no idea what he'd managed to order to drink, just blurting out the first thing he had laid eyes on on the menu and hurriedly adding a 'please' to avoid Alex's eternal wrath. The rigidity of his tense muscles was giving him a headache, as was the stuffy and smoky air in the restaurant; he was dying for a fag, but Alex kicked him every time he slid them out of his pocket, and he desperately wanted her in a good mood for- for what he was planning later this evening.

_Yer can't even admit ter yerself yer proposin'. Christ's sake, Hunt, get a grip._

He sighed to himself, forcing himself to focus back onto the menu and the indecipherable choice of foods, the words swimming in front of his eyes. _Must be somethin' in English on 'ere. _He reached out to grasp the stem of his wine glass in one hand, trying to derive some comfort from the cool smoothness beneath his fingertips, squeezing hard to stop himself doing something stupid, like leaving.

_You aimin' too 'igh again, Eugene? Yer know she'll refuse. Laugh in yer face an' tell yer ter get out before she kicks yer in the gonads fer everyone else ter chuckle at. You know it'll 'appen, because yer 'opeless, always 'ave been, couldn't even stand up ter yer ol' Dad when 'e was old an' frail, could yer? Useless sod… pathetic bum-chum… whining little gay-boy…_

"Gene… Gene, open your hand. Open your hand."

It took a second for Gene to look up, his gaze blank; but then she laid her hand over his, and he realised that the warm liquid soaking into his shirt cuff was blood. He'd grasped it so tightly the stem had broken in two, slicing his palm.

"Excuse me, could we have a bandage, please?" Alex signalled to the maître d', wrapping a napkin round Gene's hand; it arrived promptly, the man watching with what could have passed as concern on the face of someone less haughty as Gene submitted to the first-aid, stumbling over a thank-you and receiving a cool smile in return.

"Do say if you need any more help, our cook's very handy with a cleaver…"

"Eh?" Gene gasped, swerving up as Alex convulsed with tinkling laughter, shaking her head indulgently.

"It's just a joke, Gene. Please excuse my companion, he's from the North."

Gene ground his teeth silently, glaring round at both of them as they chuckled together; for a second, he was back at Hendon, silently seething at his desk as the poshos laughed at him in their gang, ridiculing him behind their hands, not even bothering to wait until his back was turned. Alex, catching a glimpse of his face, hurriedly schooled her expression back to normal, nodding her thanks to the maître d' and picking the menu back up again as he headed back off to his station by the door.

"Thanks fer makin' me feel at 'ome," Gene muttered, balancing his own menu on the table one-handed; Alex reached out to lay her hand over his injured one, her face softening at the defensiveness on his.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel unwelcome, Gene. But you need to lighten up! Why so serious tonight? You're doing everything right, if that's what you're worried about."

_I'm bloody brickin' it because I'm about ter possibly do the stupidest thing in my entire life._

"I don't know what 'alf the menu is."

"Oh… you never learned French at school?"

"Trust me, Bolls, not much use fer ruddy French in Manchester. Apart from _voulez-vous couchez avec moi_, guaranteed ter get the girls in bed with yer. They loved a bit of sophistication."

"Trust you. Well, that one is basically steak in a wine sauce…"

It took ten minutes for Alex to translate the menu, by which time Gene was fidgeting, trying to ignore his father's voice cackling at him every time he tried and failed to decipher the names of the dishes; just when he was beginning to think this had been an awful idea and he should try to get out while he still could, the waitress arrived and he found himself ordering the steak, simply because it was the only thing he'd ever eaten before. The beam of pride on Alex's face was enough to convince him that he'd managed to make it through the ordeal, ordering herself Dover sole and ignoring Gene's look as the waitress bustled off to place their orders with the kitchen.

"What?"

"You 'ad every posh, all-frills-included, French poofter dish you could've ever wanted, an' yer went fer Dover sole?"

"Just goes to show, Gene…" Alex picked her wine glass up and took a sip, leaning forwards conspiratorially as her hand travelled up from Gene's bandaged palm to rest on his arm. "French and posh is alright sometimes, but a bit of refined English wildlife beats the socks off it most of the time."

She squeezed his arm gently, her open smile making Gene's heart rate almost treble.

Suddenly something inside him snapped. He wasn't poncing about listening to his father and stumbling over French any more, he was the Manc Lion, and he was about to claim his lioness. A well of possessiveness surged up inside him, and he found himself struggling for breath, gritting his teeth as he looked straight into Alex's eyes, hoping that she would be able to strip away the hard exterior and see the- love- within.

Alex's eyes, the moment they met his, filled with tears.

"Gene- what are you…?"

Her voice tailed away as Gene slid his hand out from under hers and descended to the floor on one fell swoop, the sophisticated murmur of the restaurant dying down to silence as diner after diner turned to see the young man kneeling on the dark red carpet and Alex pressing her hand to her mouth, a single tear dropping onto the tablecloth as Gene pulled the box from his pocket.

"Alex… yer know I'm not one fer 'earts an' flowers, never 'ave been, but it doesn't mean I don't feel that way… just because I might not say it often enough, or I might sometimes 'ave ter remind myself that it's nothin' ter be ashamed of, doesn't make me l-love yer any less. Yer amazin', yer always 'ave been, an' I know I'll never find anyone else I'll want ter share my life with as much as you… so… Alex Price, will you marry me?"

One finger, trembling so hard it slipped on its first try, slowly tipped the lid of the box up to display the ring.

Alex removed a shaking hand from her face, slowly revealing her mouth; Gene swallowed hard, praying that it wasn't twisted into a snarl of scorn, but when her pale pink lips gradually appeared they were curved into a smile so wide it seemed too big for her face.

The relief caused such a rush of blood to his head that his vision went red for a moment before her whispered reply.

"You amazing man. You stubborn, awkward, egotistic, belligerent, wonderful, amazing, brilliant man. Gene… YES!"

The last word was a delighted shriek as she flung her arms round him, the diners around them simultaneously bursting into applause and whooping as Gene's lips found Alex's and pulled her in for a kiss that, like them, was not perfect, but was filled with such happiness that it simply didn't have to be.

Their lips were still caressing each others' as Gene gently slipped the ring onto her finger, his hand holding onto hers beside their heads as though he could never bear to let go.

"Congratulations!" rang from every corner of the restaurant as one of the waiters hurried off for some champagne and Gene balanced himself back up onto the seat, Alex reluctantly perching back on her own and reaching out to re-establish contact as soon as she was balanced. Her hand firmly in his, thumb gently stroking the back of her palm, she giggled as Gene's feet found hers beneath the table, twining them round hers in a show of simple affection she would never have thought Gene Hunt capable of.

But then, she hadn't been expecting this, had she?

She lifted the ring to view it on her hand, her cheeks already sore from smiling; the design shone in the soft lighting, the flickering candle on the table giving the diamond an almost ethereal shimmer, framed by the four twinkling rubies and the intricate engraving. The band was a little big, but she didn't care; if anything, it made her adore it even more, that this ring would be altered to fit her exactly, placed utterly in her possession.

And as she shifted over to hold Gene in her arms again, moving the chair right round the table so that he could put his arm round her shoulders and trace a gentle pattern on her shoulder, she knew that she, too, would never love anyone quite as much as she loved the man beside her, the flawed, damaged, perfect man she had shared much of her life with and was determined to share the rest with too.

The waiter, clearly an expert, poured their champagne as quietly as he could to avoid breaking the moment, a grin still on his face; Alex slowly reached out to pick up one of the gently fizzing flutes, lifting it to Gene's lips and pouring a sip in as his eyes met hers, the smile in them still written loud and clear. Watching him, she found herself fascinated by his mouth, his cheeks as he rolled the liquid around his mouth, appreciating its tartness and soft, playful tang, a grin transforming his face as he swallowed and gently took the champagne flute from her fingers, pressing it to her own lips as she opened them to receive the mouthful of smooth liquid.

The moment it hit her taste buds, her eyes widened in surprise and she had to fight not to burst into giggles as Gene picked the champagne bottle up and turned it round to read the label, one finger tracing the name as Alex finally managed to swallow and laughed out loud, unable to keep her mirth inside.

"Bollinger. How utterly, utterly appropriate!"

* * *

><p>Gene was so happy by the end of the evening, he didn't even have the heart to argue about Alex going halfsies on the bill. Nor did he argue about the Bollinger not being charged to them, simply thanking the hairy-nosed maître d' and keeping his arm firmly around Alex as he sent one of his assistants to fetch their coats.<p>

"Erm, thanks again fer the bandage," he muttered as the assistant began rummaging through the menagerie of fur coats and designer bags for Alex's things, his injured hand shoved awkwardly in his pocket; the maître d' simply winked at him, leaning over as Alex reluctantly eased Gene's arm off her shoulders to shrug into her coat.

"She's a keeper, laddie, ye make sure te hald onto her," he murmured in a broad Geordie accent, grinning at Gene's look of surprise as the assistant returned with his beloved Crombie boat and held it out for Gene to back into. "Mind how ye go now."

Gene, utterly star-struck by the whole night, could only manage a nod and a smile back before Alex was whisking him out into the night and the whirlwind of kisses and adoration yet to come.

* * *

><p><em>August 2005<em>

"I wish they'd let me put you in your pyjamas, at least. That hospital robe looks awfully uncomfortable, all plasticky and cheap… not sure what else I expected from the NHS, really, but I'd love to dress you in something better."

Alex's ring gleamed in the dim hospital lighting as she reached up to stroke her husband's forehead above the oxygen mask, bending to press a feather-light kiss to his warm skin as Molly shifted slightly on her chair and Sam muttered something in his sleep, the hand not clutching his father's reaching out into thin air before dropping back onto the bed with a dull thud. His mother watched with tears in her eyes, refusing to believe that Gene might never see his son again, might not be there to comfort him after his first break-up or congratulate him on his GCSE results; it just couldn't be, she couldn't even consider it without her eyes welling up and her throat feeling as though it was closing in on itself.

With a heroic effort, she swallowed hard, forcing herself to carry on talking. If it would help, she would do it, no questions asked. She would do anything to help Gene.

"They made Sam- adult Sam, not our son- go home, he was practically asleep on his feet and there's not enough room for someone else to sleep in here. You're taking up all the space, you selfish bastard. You and your machines. Honestly, I've never known anything like it. Completely ignoring the kids too… and me. And me, darling. Don't forget me."

Her hand travelled down to his chest, the sprinkling of golden hair on display beyond the collar of the hospital gown; caressing his skin, she sighed, her eyes fixed on the cannula in his elbow.

"Come on, Gene. You've had your rest, now you're just being lazy. The surgeon wants you to wake up, and I want you to wake up, so you open your eyes now and I promise you can get some sleep straight afterwards, if that's what you're worried about."

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

"They've caught him, you know. Watertight case, the idiot. But then… anyone stupid enough to attack the Gene Genie wouldn't be able to comprehend how to not leave clues behind, would they? My Gene Genie, my Manc Lion. I was the one who started that, you remember? I called you that in the playground, the day before you went home from Manchester, and the name stuck forever. It's a part of you now. An intrinsic part of you."

_Bolly…_

"Mum?" Molly yawned, easing herself upright in her sleeping bag, perched precariously on three cushioned chairs; Alex pulled her daughter into a hug, stroking her hair, a single tear sliding down her cheek as Molly reached out to clasp her father's hand in both of hers, gently transferring it onto her lap so as not to jog the cannula. Gene breathed slowly on, still and sedate, not a flicker of movement as Molly bent to rest her head on the mattress beside him, closing her eyes so her mother couldn't see the pain in them.

"He's stable, look, Molls. Everything as it should be."

Alex gestured shakily to the machines clustered around the bed, each bleeping away reassuringly, a menagerie of neon-green graphs and digits. Molly nodded her agreement, not knowing and not caring what the machines were, simply determined to be positive for her family, to be strong, just as her father always urged her to be.

"Yeah, Mum. He's doing well, aren't you, Dad? Be up and about in no time. If he stops messing around in la-la land or wherever he is. Say hi to the Sandman for me, eh? Remember that story you used to tell me about the Sandman, when I was really little, something about him coming and sprinkling sand in my eyes so I'd have good dreams. And then you made up all his adventures too. You could've been an author if you weren't so allergic to using your brain."

_Molls?_

"Don't be too hard on him, he's clever enough when he wants to be," Alex said gently, lifting Gene's arm to drape it over Molly's stomach. "He used to sleep with you like this on the sofa, and I'd come in at about ten o'clock and order the pair of you up to bed. You always used to tease him about falling asleep, and he'd start swaying on the spot saying he was about to fall asleep standing up, and you'd shriek your head off telling him he had to stay awake because only horses slept standing up. Right pair, you were, always waking Sam up."

"Yeah, I remember. All my friends were so jealous my dad was a police officer when theirs were accountants or builders or postmen."

Molly yawned widely, both hands rubbing Gene's arm; Sam, on the other side of the bed, turned over and fell off his makeshift mattress onto the floor with a resounding 'oof', picking himself up and sticking his tongue out as Molly giggled.

"You shouldn't be on Dad's bed, Molly, you might be hurting him!"

"I'm not hurting him. Dad sleeps in Mum's bed with her, doesn't he? I bet he's lonely, all on his own in a bed. He probably likes having some company."

"Just make sure you don't hurt him. Yer don't want ter be 'urt any more, do yer, Dad?" Sam murmured, his accent slipping from London to Manchester as he addressed his father. Molly couldn't help a little smile, turning her head to press her lips to Gene's forearm.

_Sam?_

"Come on, let's all have a cuddle. Dad included," Alex said gently, shifting her chair closer and holding her arms out to her children, a tearful smile on her face. Sam carefully shifted over, perching on the very edge of the bed; Molly reached down to tuck Gene in more securely, putting one arm round Sam's shoulders and the other round her mother's waist as Alex extended one arm to her son, leaning them both down so that they were close enough to Gene to feel his warmth, his comforting presence, hear the hiss of the oxygen mask as his chest rose and fell reassuringly.

"If we close our eyes, it'll be just as though Dad was awake," Alex said softly, her chin wobbling; the two children exchanged glances, obediently closing their eyes to please their mother, the very corner of Molly's lips twitching as Sam eased slightly closer to his father and Alex began humming under her breath, a song she knew Molly would dismiss as 'ancient' but remained forever close to her heart, the perfect description of her love.

"Uptown girl, she's been livin' in her uptown world, I bet she never had a backstreet guy, I bet her mama never told her why…"

"I'm gonna try fer an uptown girl…"

For a moment Alex thought she was imagining his gruff whisper, his fingers brushing her arm, the shifting of weight on the bed; but when she opened her eyes, all she could see was the hauntingly familiar pair shining back at her from the hospital bed, the brilliant blue that had entranced her at six years old and would never again fail to do so.

"You've won her," she gasped, falling upon her husband, holding him as close as possible as Molly smashed her fist into the button for the doctor again and again, shrieking wordlessly with joy; Sam's grin seemed too big for his face, his eyes mere slits as a medical team ran in and gently disentangled husband and wife, dabbing and checking and testing as Gene held onto Alex's hand as tightly as he could, wiping away each tear as they fell onto her cheeks.

Slowly, softly, he began to sing.

"Uptown girl, she's my uptown girl…"

* * *

><p>AN: And that actually, really, honestly, truthfully IS the end of Youngsters! I got so many people shouting at me last time that I couldn't bear to leave it there, so I wrote this for you. This was the deleted scenes, but I re-wrote, edited and re-configured my heart out just for you lucky lot, so be grateful I didn't leave it as I did before.

I hope very much you have enjoyed it, and may I just say- the audience response to this has been brilliant! I was swept off my feet by the reviews for chapter one and have been clinging to the banisters ever since. You have been wonderful readers, and I am just glad that I could provide some meagre entertainment for you so that my sore fingers were worth it. Goodbye Youngsters, perhaps see you again for the odd one-shot? Maybe? Hmm… Jazzola :D


End file.
